THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 

GIFT  OF 

THE  PIERCE  FAMILY 


Unclean  and  Spotted 
from  the  World 


By 

MRS.  WILLIAM  BECKMAN 

Author  of 

Backshecsh,  A  Woman's  Wanderings 


Ofli&itafeet  &  Eap  Company 

(INCORPORATED) 
PUBLISHERS 

SAN     FRANCISCO 
1906 

UBKARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright  igo6 

by 
Mrs.   William  Beckman 


To  the  lover  of  Nature,  the  lover  of  Love,  and  the 
lover  of  Truth  :  The  descriptions  of  travel,  the  journal, 
and  all  of  the  letters  and  incidents  as  given  in  the  book 
are  absolutely  true.  It  was  ordained  that  some  must 
suffer,  and  one,  so  far  as  human  knowledge  extends,  goes 
unpunished.  Verily  truth  at  times  seems  strangest  of  all 
things  in  this  strange  life  of  ours. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

1 9 

II 16 

III 20 

IV 30 

V 36 

VI 50 

VII 58 

VIII 62 

IX 66 

X 82 

XI 89 

XII in 

XIII 117 

XIV 121 

XV 130 

XVI 138 

XVII 147 

XVIII 155 

XIX 170 

XX 179 

XXI 190 

XXII 200 

XXIII 209 

XXIV 218 

XXV 225 

XXVI 236 

XXVII 25 1 

XXVIII 262 

XXIX 268 

XXX..  .  271 


Contents 

PAGE 

XXXI 275 

XXXII 284 

XXXIII 292 

XXXIV 301 

XXXV 313 

XXXVI 328 

XXXVII 336 

XXXVIII 357 

XXXIX 370 

XL 377 

XLI...  394 

XLIL.  .  396 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

PLOWING    IN    MEXICO 32 

TEMPLE  OF   GUADALUPE,   ZACATECAS 33 

MISSION    SANTA   BARBARA 4° 

MILK   VENDER  IN    MEXICO 53 

CATACOMBS   OF  GUANAJUATO,    MEXICO 56 

WOMAN    GRINDING   CORN 64 

OX    CART    AND    PEON 83 

IXTACCIHUATL,    I?^?1     FEET 86 

WYNDAM     GLACIER 101 

CATHEDRAL  AND   ZOCALO,    MEXICO   CITY 123 

PORTE    DEL    POPOLO    AND    CLEOPATRA^S    NEEDLE 139 

HARVESTING    THE    CORN    IN    MEXICO 151 

PIGSKINS    FILLED    WITH     PULQUE I7O 

WATER-CARRIER,    CUERNAVACA 174 

FOUNTAIN   UNDER  THE   MANGO  TREES,  CUERNAVACA,   MEXICO 177 

MAGUEY    PLANT    AND    SAP-GATHERER IQI 

PYRAMID    OF     CHOLULA IQ3 

STREET    SCENE  IN    CHOLULA IQ5 

CARRYING    THE    OLLAS — WATER-COOLERS 2IO 

A  CORN  CART  IN  MEXICO  AND  ORGAN  CACTUS 214 

HUT   AND   CACTUS    FENCE,    MITLA 225 

CHILDREN  AT  GATEWAY  OF  ORGAN   HEDGE 227 

FRONT   OF    PALACE,   MITLA   RUINS 22Q 

RUINS,    MITLA 232 

CHOCOLATE    DROPS 234 

A  GROUP  OF  NATIVES  OF  MITLA 251 

GROUP  OF   WOMEN    WASHING 256 

BARRANCA    AT   TEOCELI,    NEAR   JALAPA 2OO 

MONUMENT    IN    FLORENCE    WHERE   SAVONAROLA    WAS    BURNED 282 

CALIFORNIA   LIVE   OAK 2p6 


List  of  Illustrations 


PAGE 

FOUNTAIN   AT  ALAMEDA,  VERA  CRUZ,    MEXICO 305 

GRAND   CANON 317 

MOSQUE  OF   SANTA    SOPHIA 32Q 

ENTRANCE    TO    BLACK    SEA 331 

GREEK  SOLDIER 335 

SHEPHERDS  AND  FLOCKS  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  JERUSALEM 359 

DAMASCUS    GATE,    PORTE    DE    DAMASCUS 362 

ECCE    HOMO    ARCH,     JERUSALEM 365 

THE  WELL  AND  ROAD  WHERE  WENT  THE  THREE  WISE  MEN 367 

COLONNADE  OF  THE   MOSQUE  OF   OMAR,   JERUSALEM,    PALESTINE 368 


Unclean  and  Spotted  from  the  World 


"Oh  silent  land  to  which  we  move, 
Enough  if  there  alone  be  love !  " 

"Go  and  keep  yourself  unclean  and  spotted  from  the 
world." 

Clear  and  distinct  came  the  words,  in  a  shrill  childish 
voice,  while  a  flush  of  anger  burned  in  the  cheeks,  and  the 
blue  eyes  flashed  a  look  of  scorn,  as  with  a  toss  of  her  yellow 
curls  the  child  pushed  her  small  companion  from  her  with 
a  gesture  of  contempt. 

"What  is  the  trouble,  Ruth?"  asked  a  kindly  voice 
from  the  vine-wreathed  veranda. 

"I  was  preachin'  to  her  and  told  her  what  the  minister  said 
to  us  this  morning.  She  was  naughty  and  needed  to  be  talked 
to,"  answered  the  child. 

"But  you  did  not  say  it  right.  The  minister  said,  'Keep 
yourselves  clean  and  unspotted  from  the  world.' ' 

"Well,  I  won't  change  it  for  she  does  not  keep  clean.  She 
hates  to  be  washed  and  likes  to  play  in  the  sand  and  get  mud- 
spots  on  her  clothes.  So  p'raps  it  is  good  to  leave  my  talk  as 
it  is,"  and  Ruth  settled  herself  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda 
with  an  air  of  one  who  had  done  her  whole  duty. 

"What  were  you  and  Alice  quarreling  about?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"Oh,  nuthin',  only  she  wanted  me  to  go  and  pick  water- 
cresses  and  I  wouldn't.  She  teased  me  so  I  pushed  her  away. 
1  didn't  want  to  get  wet  and  muddy  so  she  has  gone  away  by 
herself." 

Ruth  picked  up  her  pet  kitten  and  twisted  its  tail  until  it 
meowed  pitifully.  Then  sang  out  lustily,  "Don't  talk  about 
sufferin'  here  below." 

"Don't  dear,  you  hurt  me  as  much  as  you  hurt  the  kitten." 


io  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Hurt  you,  mama,"  cried  the  impulsive  child,  throwing 
the  kitten  sprawling  on  the  ground,  and  rushing  up  the  steps 
threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms.  "Why  mama?  Why 
does  it  hurt  you?  I've  heard  you  sing  that  song  often." 

"Yes,  but  the  other  line  tells  you  of  'Loving  Jesus,'  and 
does  not  mean  that  you  must  be  cruel." 

"Well,  I  can't  talk  about  things  or  sing  either  of  something 
I  know  nuthin'  about  when  I  see  things  I  know.  But  what 
can  I  say  about  lovin'  somebody  I'm  not  acquainted  with  ?  " 

"You  will  know  better,  dear,  when  you  are  older,  but  you 
must  listen  closely  and  you  will  remember  the  sermons,  and  I 
know  you  will  be  a  better  child  and  everybody  will  love  you 
all  the  more  if  you  are  sweet  and  kind.  You  must  not  be  cruel 
to  your  kitten  nor  cross  to  Alice." 

"I  can  be  good  and  I  will  try;  but  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
church  where  even  you  look  drowsy,  mama ;  and  it  is  stupid 
in  there.  I  can't  remember  what  the  preacher  says  for  I  look 
out  through  the  window  and  wish  I  were  up  in  the  trees  with 
the  birds  or  lying  on  the  grass  listening  to  them  for  they  sing 
and  are  glad.  They  have  their  meetin's  too  when  every  little 
bird  talks  and  does  not  have  to  sit  and  listen  to  some  older 
bird  and  there  is  never  a  mama  to  tell  them  to  keep  quiet, 
'You  must  be  seen  and  not  heard' ;  but  everyone  is  a  preacher 
and  chatters  and  sings  his  own  tale  and  knows  what  he  is 
talkin'  about  probably  as  well  as  the  preacher  does." 

"Why  Ruth.    Where  do  you  get  such  ideas?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  think  them  out  and  I  know  it  is 
all  true.  I  love  to  watch  them.  They  don't  have  to  listen 
to  stories  of  things  that  happened  so  long  ago  that  they  just 
guess  if  it  ever  happened.  The  birds  do  things  they  want  to 
and  that  is  why  they  are  always  happy.  Mama  I  get  tired 
listening  to  'In  the  beginnin','  and  then  other  times  we  have 
the  'begats.'  I  get  sick  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  the 
'begats.'  I  want  to  be  out-doors  and  know  about  the  things 
that  are  here,  the  birds,  flowers  and  children  suit  me." 

"But  Ruthie  you  must  not  say  these  things,"  counseled  her 
mother,  and  she,  wise  in  her  loving  motherhood  said  not 
too  much,  but  tenderly  strove  to  guide  the  impetuous  child 
aright  until  Ruth,  begging  forgiveness,  said : 


FROM   THE   WORLD  n 

"I  want  you  to  come  out  with  me.  Let  us  sit  under  the 
trees.  Let  us  forget  the  sermons  and  just  look  up  at  the  blue 
skies  through  the  trees  and  sing  'Nearer.'  That  song,  when 
you  sing  it  makes  me  feel  better  than  sermons,  for  then  I  want 
to  be  good  and  never  again  be  naughty  if  I  can  help  it." 

It  was  many  years  after  that  afternoon,  in  reading  over 
some  old  letters,  one  written  by  her  mother,  recounting  the 
child's  rather  odd  and  wilful  ways,  to  her  absent  father  that 
Ruth  came  across  it  and  others  recalling  much  of  her  child 
hood  days. 

Yes,  she  murmured,  I  was  the  child;  wilful  in  many 
ways,  thinking  my  own  thoughts,  rejecting  much  that  was  not 
according  to  my  childish  ideas.  How  I  hated  the  wasted 
Sundays  as  I  thought  them,  listening  to  conundrums  about 
Adam  and  Eve,  the  Garden  of  Eden,  the  serpent  which  I 
hated,  and  the  apple  1  wanted  and  didn't  blame  Eve  for 
eating,  only  I  wondered  why  she  was  so  anxious  to  divide  it 
with  Adam.  But  that  was  not  so  bad  as  the  "begats,"  Seth, 
Noah  and  a  lot  of  others  I  could  not  remember,  and  the 
Ark  and  two  by  twos  we  learned  so  long  ago  while  yearn 
ing  for  the  beautiful  living  things  that  were  of  such 
unbounded  interest  to  me. 

Yet,  even  if  wearying  and  tiresome  to  me  then,  how  I 
love  to  recall  those  dear,  sweet  days,  and  my  heart  is  very 
tender  when  I  think  of  her  who  tried  hard  to  give  me  a  por 
tion  of  faith — the  faith  which  passeth  all  understanding,  and 
the  memory  of  my  indifference  is  bitter.  The  gentle  words 
and  pained  look  in  her  dear  eyes  are  clearer  to  me  now 
than  then,  and  cut  scars  on  my  heart  that  time  can  never 
efface.  Now  I  know  too  well  that  it  is  too  late,  for  the  sweet 
voice  is  stilled  and  the  dear  eyes  are  closed  forever. 

There  are  many  changes  since  then.  The  tiny  brook  where 
Aileen,  my  dearest  playmate,  and  I  played,  seems  smaller 
to  me  now  than  it  did  when  we  tossed  pebbles  into  the  clear 
depths  and  made  boats  of  paper  and  cast  them  loose  upon  its 
swift  ripples. 

My  life  has  broadened  and  deepened  and  there  has  been 
sorrow  enough  and  not  too  much  joy.  But  in  looking  back 
ward  how  I  love  the  sunlight  on  the  ripples  and  sparkling 
waters  of  that  brook  that  meant  so  much  to  me,  rushing  on 


12  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

and  on,  ever  to  some  unknown  fairy  region,  to  my  mind,  and 
the  longing  to  go  to  sail  away  on  those  waters  like  the  frail 
boats  grew  as  I  grew,  and  made  me  make  strange  resolves  in 
my  mind  as  to  what  I  should  do  when  old  enough  to  leave 
school. 

There  was  much  to  look  forward  to.  Everything  was 
new,  and  it  was  a  buoyant,  exuberant  life  that  Aileen  and  I 
enjoyed.  We  had  our  disputes,  for  she  did  not  take  kindly 
to  her  books,  and  I  was  prone  to  lecture  her.  But  she  was 
wilful  and  cared  more  for  out-door  life  than  anything  or  any 
pursuit  within  the  house.  I  was  content  with  my  books  and 
my  music.  She  loved  the  flowers  and  was  interested  in  the 
myriads  of  insect  life  that  were  in  evidence  everywhere  to 
her  quick  eyes. 

"Why,"  she  said  once  to  me,  "I'd  rather  lie  under  a  tree 
and  listen  to  the  hum  of  the  bees,  the  insects,  the  slatting  of 
the  katydids  and  crickets,  the  soft,  sweet  music  of  the  wires 
that  the  winds  touch  and  send  the  faint  quivering  sounds 
down  to  me,  than  listen  to  your — not  always  perfect  touch 
upon  the  piano." 

"But,  Aileen,  we  must  learn,  and  cannot  know  unless  we 
try." 

"I'm  not  going  to  try.  The  birds  know  how  to  sing.  They 
do  not  sit  by  the  hour  trying  octaves.  Kittens  can  talk  to  each 
other;  so  do  the  little  chickens.  They  know  what  the  mother 
hen  says  as  soon  as  they're  hatched.  The  goslings  know  how 
to  swim  without  being  taught,  and  all  the  animals  know  each 
other  without  an  introduction.  Why,  my  pony  only  the  other 
day  met  another  one  on  the  road  when  I  was  riding  him. 
He  stopped,  they  rubbed  noses,  and  in  some  way  knew  they 
were  old  friends,  for  the  strange  pony  turned  and  trotted 
contentedly  along.  He  wasn't  worried  about  position,  money 
or  'our  set.'  They  liked  each  other  and  that  was  enough." 

"Why,  Aileen,  what  nonsense  you  are  talking.  Our 
mamas  could  not  allow  us  to  trot  away  with  strange  children. 
It  would  never  do,  they  might  be  very  naughty." 

"Well,  I'm  thinking  it  all  out,  and  am  studying  about  it, 
and  I,  too,  shall  know  for  myself  sometime." 

All  these  ideas  were  discussed  when  we  were  mere  slips  of 
girls,  and  all  of  Aileen's  spare  time  away  from  school  was 


FROM   THE   WORLD  13 

devoted  to  out-door  life.  Her  one  gift  was  sketching  and 
painting,  and  as  she  grew,  she  was  allowed  all  the  spare  time 
possible.  She  was  an  artist  by  nature  and  instinct.  Her  pas 
sion  was  nature  in  all  its  moods  and  phases,  and  when  we 
were  yet  children  she  said:  "When  I  am  tired  of  painting 
these  things  and  can  do  it  to  suit  me,  especially  those  gnarled 
old  trees,  I  shall  go  and  paint  the  cedars  of  Lebanon." 

"Of  Lebanon,"  I  echoed  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  that  is  why  I  am  working  so  hard." 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  paint  trees  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world?" 

"Never  mind.  When  I  am  ready  to  do  them  I  will  be 
there,"  she  answered. 

"Yes;  in  an  airship,  and  drop  down  on  one  of  your  air 
castles,"  I  said. 

So  we  would  talk,  and  I  would  humor  her  fancies,  and  the 
hours  we  passed  talking  and  speculating  on  the  future  were 
many  indeed.  Life  was  not  mere  existence  to  her.  She 
seemed  buoyed  up  with  an  indefinable,  delightful,  joyous 
spirit,  which  shone  in  her  eyes  and  bubbled  from  her  lips 
in  song  and  laughter. 

The  blue  skies  and  warm,  bright  sunshine  which  were  never 
dim  or  dulled  for  her  half  the  year  round  seemed  to  have 
given  a  certain  warmth  to  her  nature.  She  reveled  in  each 
new  day,  and  the  sun  was  seldom  up  before  she  was  dressed 
and  out  in  the  unclouded  splendor  through  all  the  golden 
hours,  until  the  sun  changed  into  a  fiery  disk  and  the  cool  blue 
mists  of  night  shut  like  a  dream-curtain  the  crimson  glory. 

Then,  again,  when  the  moon  shone  a  bright  and  radiant 
globe  in  the  star-sprinkled  heavens,  it  touched  another  chord 
of  her  being  and  at  times  when  we  were  wont  to  sit  on  the 
vine-covered  veranda  talking,  crooning  some  quaint  melody, 
or  in  silence,  I  have  seen  her  eyes  fill  with  tears  and  drop 
unheeded  as  she  thought. 

Hers  was  a  sensitive  nature,  and  I  dreaded  the  future  for 
her  before  I  scarcely  knew  why.  Her  capacitv  for  enjoyment, 
her  delight  in  everything  that  was  beautiful,  the  sudden 
changes  in  her  moods,  a  shrinking  from  all  pain  or  sorrow 
made  me  often  wonder  how  it  would  fare  with  her  if  trouble 
or  wrong  ever  came  to  her. 


i4  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Do  you  know,  Ruth,  that  there  are  times  when  my  soul 
seems  drawn  up,  up  out  of  my  body  when  1  gaze  on  the  dear 
twinkling  stars?  What  mean  the  strange  thoughts,  the 
thrill  that  is  like  an  electric  shock,  only  it  is  sweet,  for  it 
touches  my  heart  on  nights  like  this.  Foolish  you  think  them, 
I  know,  but  there  is  something  appealing  and  comforting, 
too,"  she  babbled  on  one  evening  in  a  like  strain,  and  added: 

"And  I  want  to  tell  you  something  else,  Ruth,"  she  said 
dreamily.  "That  star,  the  middle  one  in  the  handle  of  the 
great  dipper,  is  where  I'm  going  when  I  die.  And  if  I  go 
first,  you  can  look  up  at  my  home  afterwards  and  remember 
where  I  am." 

These  were  her  fanciful  hours,  just  as  she  had  her  freak 
days;  one  I  often  recall.  We  were  wandering  along  the 
sloping  hills,  away  from  the  rest  of  the  party  who  were  spend 
ing  a  day  in  the  foothills.  We  were  talking  of  Jacob's  Lad 
der  and  the  Pillow  of  Stone,  and  she  told  me  to  lie  down  and 
try  a  stone  for  a  pillow.  Looking  up  the  mountain  slope,  she 
said  "They  are  God's  ladders  to  climb  to  the  skies." 

Suddenly  she  cried,  "I  am  going  to  try  it.  I  am  going 
up  this  beautiful  stairway,  among  the  blossoms  and  bees. 
You  stay  here  until  I  get  to  the  blue  sky  up  there  where  the 
white  clouds  hide  the  top  of  the  ladder.  I'll  go  until  I  can 
hear  the  angels  sing.  Then  I  will  come  back  and  sing  to  you 
the  songs  I  hear.  I  know  the  music  is  grand,  and  I  want 
to  see  their  wings.  You  know  when  we  played  meetin'  the 
other  night,  Frank  prayed  and  said,  'Dear  God,  when  I  get 
to  heaven  I  want  to  be  an  angel  with  great  wings,  tipped  with 
the  colors  of  the  rainbow.'  Well,  I  do  not  want  to  wait.  I 
think  I  can  see  them  if  I  go  now  before  they  go  back  to  their 
dear  little  white  homes  that  are  so  bright  when  the  sun  goes 
down ;  for  you  know  that  is  the  time  God  turns  on  the  elec 
tric  lights  in  each  house  so  that  every  angel  may  know  the 
way  to  his  home." 

She  was  away  like  a  flash,  up  the  grassy  slopes,  and 
I  waited  patiently  until  the  evening  shadows  shut  out  the  rosy 
light  and  it  grew  dark  under  the  trees.  Suddenly  a  sound,  a 
wail  it  seemed  to  me,  struck  terror  to  my  heart.  I  sprang  up 
and  fled  down  the  manzanita-lined  pathway  with  sobbing 
breath  and  the  fear  that  something  was  pursuing  me.  Then 


FROM   THE   WORLD  15 

my  dress  was  caught  with  a  terrible  grasp  and  I  fell  senseless, 
where  they  found  me,  after  searching  and  calling  for  us  in 
vain.  My  yell  of  fright  brought  them  and  they  found  me 
with  my  dress  caught  on  a  bush,  and  farther  up,  Aileen,  also, 
quietly  sleeping,  the  angels  and  stars  forgotten. 


II 

"Hath  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business? 
Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness." 

"Jack,  I  dropped  in  for  a  moment  to  tell  you  I'm  going 
away.  I  am  going  to  leave  care,  which  I  have  lately  been 
thinking  of  only  in  capital  letters,  to  bury  itself  in  some  grave 
or  groove.  There  is  but  little  difference  in  the  spelling,  you 
know;  and  if  I  do  not  get  out  of  the  aforesaid  groove  it  will 
end  in  the  former  for  me,  if  I  go  on  in  the  same  old  routine.'* 

"Going  to  replace  the  old  raveled  sleeve  of  care  with  a 
new  one,  Frank?"  said  his  friend. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  bury  it,  and  with  the  taps  shall  pray 
that  it  never  be  resurrected.  It  has  served  faithfully  for 
years  and  is  old  enough  to  be  on  the  retired  list  upon  half 
pay,  if  it  refuses  to  stay  dead.  I  want  a  change  and  a  new 
recruit  for  the  next  year  or  so,  and  I  want  you  to  come  with 
me.  1  need  you.  You  will  serve  as  sauce  and  butter  to  the 
sometimes  dry  toast  of  travel.  I  want  a  companion,  and  I 
need  you.  The  time  is  now;  the  golden  grains  of  opportunity 
are  slipping  by.  I  am  weary  of  the  life  I  have  known.  The 
tangled  sophistries  of  the  world  choke  my  soul,  and  I  must 
get  away  from  it  for  a  while.  I  long  for  freedom,  the  free 
dom  of  the  mesas,  the  rush  and  whirr  of  wheels  over  deserts 
and  mountains,  the  joy  of  change  and  relief  from  one's 
environments." 

"You're  a  queer  fellow,  Frank.  Do  you  suppose  you  are 
going  to  get  out  of  the  civilized  world.  If  so,  where  is  your 
Ultima  Thule?" 

"No;  but  I  am  going  to  try  the  dolce  far  niente  for  a  time. 
I  shall  go  wherever  my  fancy  dictates.  Mexico  first — dear 
land  of  manana.  There  shall  be  only  tomorrows  for  me  for 
a  while,  I  assure  you.  Instead  of  the  mild  effort  at  Bohe- 
mianism  in  a  frappe  wine  now  and  then,  and  a  petit  souper  by 
people  with  money  here,  I  shall  see  again  the  real  thing  in  the 
Latin  quarter  that  bears  no  resemblance  to  American  Bohe- 

16 


FROM   THE   WORLD  17 

mianism.  Then  the  trattiors  and  cafes  of  the  spaghetti-loving 
Italians,  where  smoke  and  garlic  are  abundant,  and  odors 
'told  and  untold  are  omnipresent.  But  even  so,  in  all  its  best 
or  worst,  I  will  find  a  sort  of  people  who  do  not  take  life 
seriously,  but  live  each  day  as  it  should  be  lived,  without  too 
much  thought  or  care  for  the  next  one  to  come." 

"So  you  think  you  will  find  a  people  who  enjoy  life  and  find 
their  daily  bread  showered  down  on  them,  as  the  children  of 
Israel?" 

"No.  I  do  not  expect  miracles  in  this  age  of  electricity 
and  wireless  telegraphy.  But  I  have  been  across  the  Atlantic 
once  before,  you  know,  and  I  shall  find  it  different  from  this 
eternal  rush  and  struggle  for  gold  or  supremacy." 

"Would  you  have  a  man  lead  an  idle,  aimless  life?" 

"Not  necessarily  idle  nor  aimless,  but  with  less  of  the  desire 
to  gain  a  little  more  than  some  other  fellow,  and  content  with 
a  competence,  for  ambition  crowds  out  the  nobler  part  of 
man  frequently,  and  one  desire  gained  is  succeeded  by  some 
thing  more  difficult  and  less  easy  to  obtain.  Few  are  content 
to  stop  before  they  find  their  Waterloos.  Death  is  the  only 
sure  thing,  and  that  often  comes  the  quicker  for  the  rush  and 
struggle  in  trying  to  reach  the  goal." 

"When  a  man's  business  commands  his  entire  attention  all 
of  his  time,  what  is  he  to  do  but  endure  or  enjoy  as  best  he 
may,"  said  Jack.  "I  know  of  no  other  reasonable  way." 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  try  a  more  reasonable  way,  for  I  am 
dividing  my  affairs  among  several  people  who  will  not  find 
the  work  too  arduous,  and  some  of  the  money  I  have  made 
I  am  going,  by  travel,  to  convert  into  mind.  I  want  diver 
sion — new  thoughts  and  new  ideas.  I  want  to  see  people ;  to 
know  a  few,  perhaps,  who  are  content,  who  will  rise  when 
they  have  slept  enough,  who  take  time  to  eat  and  who  work 
in  order  that  there  may  be  enough  and  to  spare,  but  who 
are  not  possessed  of  the  spirit  of  unrest — of  saving  and 
hoarding  gold.  I  know  a  man  who  is  very  wealthy  who  eats 
a  hurried  breakfast,  gulps  down  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  bite  of 
toast.  'I  have  no  time  to  talk,'  he  tells  his  wife;  is  up  and 
away  to  his  office  as  fast  as  electricity  can  take  him ;  return 
ing  at  night,  eats  his  dinner  in  silence,  too  tired  to  converse, 
and  retires  only  to  re-live  every  day  the  same  routine.  So 


1 8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


the  years  are  going  fast.  A  great  deal  of  the  beautiful  in 
life  is  unknown  to  him.  Avarice  and  its  twin — ambition — 
have  mastered  the  man.  He  and  his  family  are  sacrificed  to 
the  Moloch  of  promise.  For  the  future  always  holds  a 
promise  of  something  different.  When  once  the  germ  disease 
of  avarice  gets  in  the  brain  nothing  but  death  can  effect  a 


cure." 


u 


'I  am  sorry,  Frank.  You  will  have  to  find  someone  else. 
My  environments  suit  me  pretty  well,  and  I  enjoy  my  life, 
prosaic,  as  you  please  to  call  it;  chacun  a  son  gout,  you  know. 
I  hope  you  will  enjoy  your  freedom  and  come  back  cured." 

"Cured  of  what?" 

"Some  odd  emotional  vagaries  that  possess  your  usually 
clear  brain,"  said  Jack. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  cured;  don't  want  to  be  unnecessarily! 
sane.     I  may  not  possess  a  crazy  'bug'  because  I  want  some-j 
thing  outside  the  daily  life  of  him  who  lives,    works,  and  I 
draws  his  salary.     I  may  come  back  and  put  the  halter  about 
my  neck,  but  I  shall  not  be  in  a  hurry,  I  fancy.     The  tramp 
life  will  suit  me  for  a  time.     I  have  envied  the  tramps  at 
timcc.  lying  on  the  cool  grass  placidly  enjoying  the  fragrant 
winds  and  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees,  where  the  dandelions 
make  yellow  splashes  and  the  hoary-headed  elders,  showing 
above  the  young  ones,  whitening  in  the  sun,  show  how  short 
lived  they  are  and  the  need  of  making  the  most  of  our  time 
So,  before  my  thatch  begins  to  whiten  and  get  thin,  I  shall  lei 
others  do  the  hurrying  and  simply  enjoy  my  allotted  hours  01 
idleness  as  they  appeal  to  me." 

"Well,  my  boy,  go  and  have  your  fill  of  the  manana  land 
Have  your  fill  of  travel  also;  cast  dignity  to  the  devil;  be  wile 
and  free;  go  back  to  the  primitive  once  more;  forget  th< 
eternal  grind,  as  you  are  pleased  to  term  it;  take  life  in  bi^i 
doses,  not  on  the  homeopathic  plan;  enjoy  the  Egyptian  sun 
sets,  they  will  be  more  numerous  than  the  sunrises  that  yoi 
will  see,  I  think.  And  when  your  wings  are  tired,  just  flo] 
down  here  again  and  we  will  jog  on  contentedly  for  the  resi 
of  our  lives.  By  the  way,  if  you  are  yearning  for  someone  t< 
go  with  you  ask  Fred  Marshall,  he  is  out  of  sorts.  A  disap 
pointment,  or  something,  and  1  learn  he  is  leaving  very  soon. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  19 

"Is  that  true?  If  you  will  not  come  with  me  I  will  see  if 
he  and  I  cannot  go  together.  I  shall  write  you  when  on  my 
travels,  just  to  divert  your  mind  now  and  then,  you  know." 


Ill 

"The   worldly    Hope   men   set   their   hearts    upon 
Turns  ashes — or  it  prospers ;  and  anon, 
Like  snow  upon  the  desert's  dusty  face 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — is  gone.'' 

EDITH  HAMMOND  WRITES  TO  HER  FRIEND, 
AILEEN  LIVINGSTON 

I  must  give  you  the  details  of  this  eventful  afternoon,  dear 
Aileen.  Mama  was  vexed  with  me  because  I  refused  to  go 
to  an  afternoon  card  party  with  some  of  my  girl  friends.  I 
refused,  and  said  to  them:  "I  want  to  be  out  in  God's  sun 
shine  and  have  it  in  my  face  and  in  my  heart.  You  girls  may 
go  and  have  your  progressive  whist  or  euchre  hours  under 
the  gas-light,  in  close  rooms,  but  I  prefer  the  breath  of  the 
lupins  out  there  on  the  hills  and  the  purifying  atmosphere 
from  the  crisp  salt  waters.  I  will  drink  it  in  and  be  glad.  It 
will  be  more  beneficial  to  me  than  that  which  you  will  imbibe, 
however  fine  the  liquid  or  the  quality  of  cut-glass. 

"You  can  progress  in  that  style  if  you  like,  but  you  know 
summer  is  my  Lenten  season  and  I  am  not  going  to  any 
dances  or  card  parties.  I  will  do  penance  in  other  ways. 
Duplicate  whist  with  some  of  those  mentally  unhinged  women 
you  are  constantly  meeting?  No!  I  like  easier  methods. 
If  I  must  wear  peas  in  my  shoes  I  will  parboil  them  first,  while 
observing  the  letter  of  the  law.  I  do  not  see  that  the  time  of 
the  year  has  much  to  do  with  it  if  one  observes  the  rule. 
Summer  time  is  proper  for  Lent,  anyway,  according  to  my 
ideas,"  I  told  them. 

They  insisted  1  was  silly,  but  I  was  not  to  be  coerced ;  told 
them  I  was  not  going  to  tax  my  mind  with  echoes,  fourth- 
leads,  tierces  and  sequences;  that  I  feared  the  consequences 
if  I  yielded,  and  that  none  of  those  nerve-disturbing  things 
could  tempt  me.  I  told  them  I  would  neither  lead  or  follow 
them  into  temptation  or  encourage  them  in  sinning  against 
heaven  by  killing  the  glorious  afternoon,  and  shutting  myself 


FROM   THE   WORLD  21 

up  in  close  rooms,  however  attractive  they  might  be.  "Be  off 
with  you,"  I  said.  "I  shall  out  and  tell  my  secrets  to  the 
bees." 

Then  they  clamored  for  the  secrets.  I  agreed  to  tell  them 
one.  It  is  this:  "I  am  learning  better  every  day  how  to 
enjoy  life  as  each  day  goes  by,  and  my  name  will  not 
figure  among  those  present  at  the  'charming  afternoon'  which 
will  appear  in  the  social  column  of  the  papers."  I  was  called 
a  goose,  and  several  complimentary  names  before  they  gave 
me  up  as  hopeless. 

1  hurried  away  as  soon  as  they  left,  and  drove  a  long  dis 
tance  out  in  the  country.  The  afternoon  was  perfect  and 
satisfied  every  instinct  of  my  soul.  When  tired  of  driving  I 
drew  up  under  the  shade  of  a  great  live  oak,  and  tying  my 
horse,  gave  myself  up  to  the  beauty  and  the  serenity  of  the 
place. 

Resting  on  the  flower-strewn  grass,  where  the  sun  filtered 
through  the  foliage,  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  thankfulness  that 
life  had  for  this  one  day  at  least  given  me  the  opportunity  of 
doing  what  I  wanted  to  do.  My  conscientious  scruples  were 
profitable  to  me.  It  was  not  that  I  really  objected  to  an  after 
noon  with  the  girls,  but  I  was  more  in  need  of  the  quieting 
influences  I  knew  would  be  mine,  away  from  the  tongues  that 
vex  one's  soul  at  times.  So  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  warmth 
and  soothing  restfulness  of  the  afternoon. 

Somewhere,  up  among  the  branches  of  the  tree,  a  saucy 
jay-bird  was  jawing  and  scolding  because  of  my  intrusion, 
and  a  tiny  linnet  was  singing  softly  and  sweetly  from  a  frag 
rant  acacia  near  by.  There  was  a  hum  of  insects  in  the  air; 
the  bees  droning  from  one  flower  to  another,  heavy  winged 
and  laden  with  their  cargoes  of  honey. 

Somewhere,  further  up  the  hill-side,  a  mocking-bird  was 
singing  his  heart  out  in  the  fullness  of  joy,  that  came  in  trills 
and  gurgling  sounds  so  nearer  heaven  than  I,  for  he  was  at 
peace  with  the  whole  world  and  himself,  and  poured  out  the 
throbbing  pulsing  notes,  lending  an  additional  charm  to  the 
calm  afternoon.  The  busy  wheels  and  cogs  of  thought  and 
worry  relaxed  and  moved  slowly.  I  was  conscious  of  but  one 
thought,  one  feeling,  in  the  delightful  languor  that  saturated 


22  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

my  being,  and  that  was  the  thought  of  you;  and  wishing  that 
you,  of  all  the  world,  were  with  me. 

A  faint  humming  sound,  sweet  and  low  in  its  vibrations, 
came  to  my  ears,  a  sort  of  an  accompaniment  to  my  thoughts. 
It  was  the  wires  overhead  responding  to  the  soft  breezes  that 
touched  them  gently  and  lovingly,  and  the  sweet  pulsing 
sounds  found  a  responsive  chord  in  my  heart,  and  1  lay  listen 
ing,  my  soul  steeped  in  the  delightful  calm  of  the  hour.  I 
wondered  if  you  were  not  sending  thought  messages  to  me, 
and  that  the  winds  had  brought  them  and  they  were  thrilling 
me  with  the  soft  cadence  that  comes  from  your  love,  which  I 
feel  and  understand. 

There  are  mysteries  which  we  do  not  understand  in  nature, 
perhaps  never  will.  And  while  I'm  idly  speculating  a  wood 
pecker  high  up  on  an  old  tree  gives  his  telegraphic  signals 
in  short,  sharp  taps.  Instantly,  but  faintly  heard,  comes  the 
answering  tap-tap,  tap-tap,  of  his  mate.  And  soon,  with  a 
flash  of  wings  she  is  beside  him  clinging  with  clinched  feet  in 
the  rough  bark,  head  downward,  discussing  the  contents  of 
last  year's  acorn. 

I  realize  that  there  are  signals  in  nature  we  are  not 
acquainted  with.  But  that  does  not  prove  they  do  not  exist. 
I  love  the  companionship  of  mystery.  There  is  something 
that  responds  to  an  inner-self  hardly  yet  fathomed  within  me. 
But  this  I  know,  my  pulse  is  beating,  the  restless  blood  surg 
ing  in  my  veins  is  longing  for  something  inexplicable  to  me 
now,  but  it  is  calling,  calling  me.  Some  magnetic  current  is 
striving  to  make  itself  understood.  The  wires  and  the  birds 
have  startled  me  into  a  realizing  sense  of  something  which  is 
coming  to  me,  and  I  am  trying  to  give  you  a  telegraphic  sig 
nal  by  letter — a  rather  plain  tap-tap  of  my  pen,  scratching 
my  ideas  to  you  in  the  vain  hope  that  you  will  interpret  the 
strange  feeling  I  have  in  writing  this. 

I  returned  late,  hoping  that  my  sin  of  omission  would  have 
been  forgotten.  Not  so.  Mama  was  waiting  for  me  and 
told  me  she  did  not  approve  of  my  actions  lately. 

"What  ails  you,  Edith?"  she  said.  "You  seem  entirely 
changed.  You  used  to  enjoy  going  out  with  your  friends. 
Now  you  seem  to  ignore  all  social  duties,  and  it  displeases 
me  very  much." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  23 

1  told  her  I  was  wearied  beyond  telling  of  teas  and  recep 
tions;  that  the  crush  and  idle  talk  was  only  a  little  worse  than 
the  card  parties;  that  I  preferred  fresh  air,  and  then  she  grew 
sarcastic,  and  said:  "Sunburn  and  freckles  are  better,  I  sup 
pose." 

You  know  mama's  delightful  air  when  I  rebel  against 
conventionalities. 

"Hereditary  aloofness  in  my  make-up  is  not  inherited  from 
you,  mama,"  I  said  to  her.  "A  little  bit  of  blood  of  one  of 
my  primitive  ancestors  is  awakening  and  stirring  in  my  veins, 
bidding  me  break  away  from  the  life  you  have  lived  and  I, 
too,  have  been  compelled  to  endure  up  to  this  time.  Now 
it  must  be  changed.  I  want  a  wider  horizon;  one  that  seems 
glowing  and  shimmering  in  the  distance.  The  East  is  calling 
to  the  West.  I  dream  of  Nomad's  fires,  gleaming  in  the  dusk 
of  evenings  in  strange  forests.  I  want  the  unknown  and  the 
blessed  possibilities  of  change  from  the  eternal  sameness  of 
the  life  I  am  living,  which  must  have  been  intended  for  some 
other  purpose  than  the  one  I  know  now." 

Then  she  seemed  to  have  a  new  idea.  "Edith,  when  a  girl 
like  you  experiences  a  sudden  change  of  heart,  and  all  at  once 
discovers  that  there  are  birds,  bees  and  flowers  in  the  world— 
that  the  skies  are  blue,  and  the  sun  red  at  sunset,  and  the 
moon  round  when  it  is  full — there  is,  to  a  dead  moral  cer 
tainty,  a  man  in  the  case.  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  particu 
lar  penchant  for  anyone,  yet  you  have  all  the  symptoms." 
Mama  can  be  angelic  when  she  chooses. 

I  told  her  I  was  acquainted  with  some  kinds  of  birds,  but 
was  pretty  sure  I  did  not  belong  to  the  black-bird  species, 
because  I  did  not  enjoy  the  crowd,  the  chatter  and  noise.  I 
can  enjoy  life  without  the  company  of  a  man,  or  the  com 
pany  of  some  of  those  Postum-brained  nervous  girls,  who 
turn  mental  somersaults  in  trying  to  solve  the  question  as  to 
whether  a  ten-spot  will  take  a  trick  after  the  higher  cards 
have  been  played. 

That  roused  mama  again,  for  I  had  hit  at  her  favorite  bev 
erage,  for  she  is  too  "nervy"  to  drink  coffee,  so  I  had  to  take 
another  turn. 

"There,  dear,"  I  said  to  her,  "drink  any  kind  of  beverage 
you  wish ;  drown  your  cares  in  the  cup  that  invigorates  but 


24  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

does  not  inebriate.  Only  remember  that  care  is  a  pretty  hard 
thing  to  drown,  and  sometimes  outlasts  those  who  try  to 
murder  it.  But  let  us  forget  all  this  nonsense  in  a  good  cup 
of  tea,  for  the  present." 

"My  dear,  if  only  you  would  not  try  to  aggravate  me  and 
be  more  like  other  girls.  I  cannot  understand  why  you  prefer 
the  country  and  want  to  be  so  much  alone." 

"Probably  not,  mama;  but  I  do  not  care  to  imitate.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  just  like  other  girls.  I  am  myself,  and  am 
happier,  I  think,  than  if  I  lived  according  to  your  ideas,  for  it 
would  consist  in  doing,  as  a  rule,  the  things  I  do  not  want  to 
do,  in  order  to  have  the  things  I  do  not  want." 

"I  do  not  quite  know  what  you  mean,  Edith  ." 

"I  think  it  is  not  necessary  to  read  the  handwriting  on  the 
wall  through  an  interpreter.  It  is  simply  this:  you  do  not 
care  for  anything  in  the  world  but  society.  Your  sole  ambi 
tion  is  to  keep  within  the  charmed  circle,  as  you  think  it  is. 
You  are  more  than  satisfied  with  the  never  varying  rounds 
of  dinners,  theatre  parties  and  other  functions.  You  think 
I  ought  to  be  content  with  these  things,  and  a  possible  hus 
band,  belonging  to  the  same  circle,  with  the  same  life  ahead  of 
me  that  yours  has  been,  which  is  pleasant  enough  in  its  way. 
But  it  is  not  according  to  my  ideas  of  a  life  of  contentment, 
usefulness  or  happiness." 

"You  are  utterly  without  reason,  my  dear.  Your  ideas  of 
a  simple  life  are  senseless.  You  have  always  had  the  luxuries 
and  therefore  have  not  the  faintest  idea  of  what  life  would 
be  without  them.  Your  idea  of  a  different  life  would  mean  a 
few  less  imported  gowns,  less  of  parties  and  theatres,  I  sup 
pose." 

"Not  altogether,  mama.  But  I  would  like  to  know  people 
who  think  about  things  other  than  the  where-withal  they  shall 
be  clothed,  fed  or  amused.  I  think  I  am  far  happier  and 
healthier  in  the  open  air  than  the  girls  who  were  here  after 
me  to  go  with  them  and  pass  the  sweet,  bright  hours  in  arti-, 
finally  lighted  rooms,  with  closed  windows  and  drawn  cur-1 
tains,  where  they  breathe  the  refuse  of  each  other's  breath  ir; 
rooms  malodorous  with  cut  and  decaying  flowers." 

"Edith,  what  has  changed  you  so  much?    You  have  always 
enjoyed  these  same  things  you  now  condemn." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  25 

"Perhaps  1  am  learning  new  ones.  I  .certainly  am  weaned 
of  progressive  luncheons  and  other  affairs  that  mean  anything 
but  progression  in  health,  intellect  or  wisdom,  which  have 
scant  opportunity  within  the  darkened  chambers  where  the 
crowds  prattle  without  thought  or  reason — for  that  matter, 
with  never  a  single  uplifting  thought." 

"In  the  abstract  you  may  be  correct,  but  in  practice  it  won't 
work.  You  cannot  live  up  to  your  ideas  unless  you  go  beyond 
the  pale  of  civilization;  and  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  you 
had  a  change  of  heart.  You  seemed  to  be  very  happy  and  to 
enjoy  yourself  earlier  in  the  season." 

"I  saw  enough  of  the  social  life  and  it  has  not  left  a  very 
pleasant  impression.  I  can  see  and  enjoy  another  kind  of 
life,  one  that  is  not  associated  with  odors  of  veiled  musk  and 
stagnant  wines.  I  prefer  the  life  I  have  decided  upon.  I 
am  going  to  give  up  society.  I  am  not  like  the  average  girl, 
and  there  is  no  use  trying.  I  cannot  be  satisfied  with  criticiz 
ing  my  friends  and  their  style  of  dress.  The  eternal  themes 
that  absorb  the  matron, — dress,  domestics  and  disease,  the 
extravagances  of  some,  the  economy  of  others,  the  table  linen, 
silver  and  the  wines,  are  a  never-ending  subject  for  praise  or 
censure.  I  know  I  am  profanely  frivolous  because  I  do  not 
care  for  the  accessories,  if  they  are  dainty,  sweet  and  clean. 
If  the  effect  is  satisfactory  I  never  consider  the  value,  but 
enjoy  the  dinner  and  company,  if  they  are  worth  while.  I 
know  you  would  like  me  to  be  more  like  Ruth.  She  ought  to 
have  been  your  daughter,  she  would  have  satisfied  your  every 
instinct.  I  know  how  you  enjoy  discussing  these  things  with  her. 
But  for  me,  I  seem  to  know  instinctively  the  shoddy  and  the 
shams  of  life  without  going  into  details.  If  the  punch  is  made 
with  Apollinaris  instead  of  champagne  I  might  or  not  know 
the  difference,  and  accept  the  fact  without  living  it  over  and 
talking  about  it  days  after." 

"I  do  not  think,  my  dear,  that  your  life  would  be  the  worse 
if  you  copied  after  Ruth  somewhat." 

"Well  you  know,  mama  dear,  that  I  am  not  a  copyist,  and 
I  know,  too,  that  she  is  built  on  an  entirely  different  plan. 
Apollinaris,  tea  and  toast  are  according  to  her  taste,  and 
have  a  sort  of  religious  flavor.  I  know  she  thinks  a  Bohemian 


26  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

is  a  first  cousin  to  Satan  himself,  while  I  find  the  idea  of 
Bohemia  rather  alluring.  It  would  be  a  change  you  know." 

Then  she  took  me  to  task  for  censuring  others,  and  wound 
up  by  saying  that  if  I  were  more  like  Ruth  it  would  be  far 
better  for  me;  that  Ruth  would  not  sit  with  her  feet  on  the 
window-sill  like  a  man. 

"Then  she  can  never  enjoy  herself  half  as  well  as  the  man 
and  myself,"  I  retorted,  and  then  told  her  there  was  no  use 
trying  to  reconstruct  me. 

"I  am  going  to  get  all  the  good  I  can  out  of  life,  and  you 
must  not  expect  me  to  sit  up  straight  and  keep  my  hands  and 
arms  in  place  like  the  doll  you  once  gave  me.  I  used  to  fix 
her  arms  and  legs  in  one  position  and  she  would  sit  and  stare 
at  me  until  I  jerked  her  into  some  other  position.  And  it 
made  me  so  angry  because  she  wouldn't  wiggle  her  toes  that 
I  pounded  them  off." 

"Yes,  I  remember  your  dolls  never  lasted  very  long.  Now, 
Ruth's  were  always  kept  immaculate,  even  as  she  herself  was 
and  is  now." 

"Yes,  she  pretends  to  be  sw'eet  and  modest,  and  does  it 
pretty  well,  too.  But  she  is  normal,  I  think,  and  is  probably 
as  naked  under  those  dainty  frills  as  the  rest  of  us.  She  pre 
tends  to  be  good  and  passes  for  the  real  coin  among  the 
guinea-hen  crowd  she  plays  to, — those  antiques  who  chatter 
and  cackle  about  the  times  when  they  were  young,  when  girls 
didn't  put  their  feet  on  chairs  or  window-sills  or  wear  knick 
erbockers,  play  golf  or  do  anything  but  attend  to  the  affairs 
of  the  house. 

"Perhaps  1  am  too  matter  of  fact,  mama.  I  do  not  play 
to  the  gallery  for  applause  and  then  turn  somersaults  when 
the  door  is  locked.  I  am  too  natural  to  be  anything  for  effect. 
I  know  Ruth  thinks  me  beyond  redemption.  She  used  to 
call  me  a  worm  of  the  earth.  Perhaps  I  am,  but  being  a 
worm  or  otherwise,  as  the  savants  may  decide,  I  am  at  least 
discriminating,  and  the  saving  grace  of  humor  in  me  keeps  me 
from  being  miserable  or  following  in  her  footsteps.  At  least 
I  am  pretty  sure  that  no  ancestor  of  mine  ever  lived  in  an 
Indian  jungle  or  belonged  to  the  ape  worshippers.  Perhaps 
hers  did.  Hence  her  evident  affinity  for  some  of  those  ape 
like  creatures  she  is  so  fond  of  associating  with  and  quoting. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  27 

She  is  a  good  deal  like  the  young  minister,  she  is  constantly 
with,  who  wears  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  keeps  it 
smooth  and  slick  in  a  rather  saintly  way;  but  the  blue  glints 
in  his  black  hair  are  indicative  of  a  dash  of  something  in  his 
nature  opposite  the  saintly  order." 

"Edith,  you  positively  shock  me.  How  do  you  know  any 
thing  about  blue  glints  and  a  tendency  to  evil  because  the  man 
happens  to  be  neat  and  tidy  in  his  personal  habits?" 

"I  spend  some  of  my  time  studying  human  nature  as  well  as 
tramping  about  in  an  aimless  way,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
think,  mama,  and  I  think  because  he  affects  the  law-giver  of 
Sinai  and  wears  his  collar  buttoned  in  the  back  it  does  not 
change  the  whole  nature  of  the  man." 

"I  am  sure  you  misjudge  the  man,  dear,  and  I  wish  you 
would  try  to  learn  from  him,  for  his  is  the  mission,  and  the 
privilege  to  teach,  to  instruct,  to  soften  the  pain  and  misery 
of  the  \vorld  and  to  help  us  bear  the  idea  of  the  unfathomed 
mystery  of  the  other  world." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  his  voice  is  soft  and  pleasant,  soothing 
to  some,  1  fancy.  But  I  honor  him  with  my  doubts.  He  is 
very  fond  of  giving  me  choice  morsels  from  the  Ten  Com 
mandments  that  are  terse,  concise  and  epigrammatic,  but  seem 
to  forbid  a  good  many  things  that  I  rather  enjoy." 

"With  all  your  foolishness,  my  child,  I  did  not  think  you 
were  sacrilegious." 

"I  am  not  sacrilegious  because  I  happen  to  enjoy  certain 
things  and  am  puzzled  over  others.  I  think  of  the  law-giver 
of  Sinai,  and  the  Commandment  'Thou  shalt  not  kill,' 
announced  to  the  children  of  Israel  by  Moses  after  he  had 
killed  his  man. 

"And  I  wonder,  too,  how  Abraham  would  fare  in  the  pres 
ent  day  if  he  were  here  and  passed  his  wife  off  as  his  sister 
to  some  millionaire  so  that  he  might  become  the  possessor 
of  wealth  in  the  shape  of  presents.  It  would  be  automobiles, 
yachts  and  private  cars  now,  instead  of  sheep,  goats  and  cat 
tle.  But  the  sin  of  today  was  just  and  right,  according  to  the 
Law  in  the  good  old  days." 

Then  when  I  saw  mama  was  actually  gasping  for  breath 
at  my  audacity,  added  to  the  surprise  that  I  had  ever  opened 
the  Bible — we  know  so  little  of  each  other,  Aileen — that  I 


28  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

kissed  her  and  was  off  like  a  flash  before  she  could  utter 
another  word. 

Several  things  prevented  me  from  finishing  and  starting 
this  letter  to  you,  my  dear,  and  then  something  so  very 
important  loomed  up  on  the  horizon  that  had  heretofore 
bounded  my  life  that  I  was  dazed. 

There  was  something  new  in  mama's  manner  the  next  day, 
and  I  felt,  as  when  very  little  and  very  naughty,  that  it  was 
as  well  to  expect  something.  And  I  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  myself  for  teasing  her  as  I  have  been  doing  lately,  but1 
somehow  she  or  other  things  have  got  on  my  nerves.  I  felt 
almost  neurotic  and  wondered  if  I  needed  the  rest  cure,  which 
many  I  know  have  indulged  in. 

Before  I  was  driven  to  that  or  some  other  appalling  thing 
I  was  informed  by  degrees  that  I  had  worried  mama  so  much 
lately  by  my  unorthodox  opinions  and  unconventional  behav 
ior  that  she  has  decided  to  allow  me  to  go  away  for  awhile, 
thinking  that  travel  will  be  not  only  to  my  liking,  but  will 
benefit  me. 

She  realizes  I  have  had  a  surfeit  of  society,  and  that  travel 
will  bring  about  a  more  reasonable  frame  of  mind  and  event 
ually  restore  me  to  the  proper  place  in  the  frivolous  world 
where  she  moves  and  has  her  being. 

Dear  mama  is  right,  according  to  her  way  of  thinking. 
She  is  good  and  charitable  and  does  what  she  thinks  is  just 
by  her  family  and  the  world  generally.  But  it  is  not  the  life 
I  can  endure.  Surely  there  is  something  more  satisfying  in 
the  world  than  the  life  I  have  so  far  known  and  lived.  If  the 
best  part  of  our  lives  runs  first  and  leaves  the  dregs  at  the  last, 
I  want  to  enjoy  the  clearest  and  purest  while  I  may,  and  take 
the  best  God  sends  as  I  go  along. 

I  shall  try  to  take  only  about  as  many  burdens  as  my  con 
stitution  will  bear,  and  live  up  to  them.     I  think  it  is  useless 
banking  time  on  term  deposits  for  the  proverbial  dull  or  rainy 
days  to  come.     Enough  to  think  of  them  when  they  arrive,  , 
for  I  know  I  can  enjoy  the  bright  ones  that  are  born  fresh  • 
and  new  with  each  somersault  of  the  old  world,  if  I  forget 
that  they  are  dull  or  gloomy  ones  that  may  come  while  I  am 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  each  bright  one. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  29 

I  fully  agree  with  Seneca  when  he  wisely  remarks  that 
"The  soul  is  never  in  its  right  place  until  it  be  delivered  from 
the  cares  of  human  affairs."  Therefore,  I  am  resolved  that 
firry  soul  shall  take  its  proper  place  in  the  universe  and  be 
delivered  from  cares,  human  or  otherwise,  and  be  satisfied 
with  the  Now  and  Here  of  life,  as  I  shall  find  it  in  other 
lands  among  other  people.  The  folly  of  remembering,  the 
wisdom  of  forgetting  all  that  should  pass  out  of  my  life  shall 
be  my  aim. 

I  shall  not  strive  or  worry  over  what  I  do  not  have.    I  shall 
[  be  satisfied  with  what  I  have,  and  envy  no  human  being,  and 
[try  to  acquire  knowledge  rather  than  give  up  a  life  to  the 
|  social  world  which  gives  but  a  poor  return  for  the  invest 
ment. 

I  shall  try  to  be  honest,  frank,  gentle  and  kind,  avoiding 

gossiping  tongues,  but  listening  eagerly  to  the  voices  of  nature 

which  harden  not  the  heart  or  sear  the  conscience;   to  bear 

the   reverses   that  may  come  to  me,   as  best  I   can,   trust- 

i  ing  that  all  will  tend  to  purify  and  strengthen  the  better 

•  part  in  me,  that  my  days  may  not  be  altogether  unharmonious 

but  pleasant  and  agreeable  to  me. 

These  Commandments  I  have  given  unto  myself,  dear 
Aileen,  and  now  you  shall  write  me  of  your  life,  even  to  its 
innermost  thoughts  and  depths,  as  I  shall  write  you,  wherever 
I  am,  and  tell  unto  you  only  of  myself,  knowing  you  will 
observe  faithfully  the  biblical  injunction,  "Rehearse  not  unto 
another  that  which  is  told  thee,  and  shalt  thou  fare  none  the 
worse."  For  the  present,  adios. 


IV 

"Death  doesn't  hurt  in  its  time,  but  to  miss — 
Simply  to  miss  one's  life !  " 

EXTRACTS  FROM  FRANK  LINDSAY'S  JOURNAL,   SENT  TO 
JACK  GORDON 

Thank  heaven  we  are  leaving  the  old  scenes  and  old 
sounds.  Getting  away  from  the  noises  of  city  life,  the  screech 
ing,  exasperating  quarrels  of  the  sparrows  and  the  harsher 
voices  of  the  human  hawks,  crying  their  wares  in  the  streets, — 
the  sounds  that  are  in  every  one's  ears;  that  beat  unceasingly 
like  the  ocean  farther  out  against  the  rock-girt  Golden  Gate, 
coming  in  fitful  bursts  like  storm-gusts — sounds  that  are 
varied  and  assertive,  that  dare  you  to  forget,  to  hope  for 
silence  from  the  turmoil  and  unrest  of  those  who  live,  love 
and  have  their  being  amid  the  irritating,  depressing  and 
overpowering  sounds  that  abide  there  always. 

The  " wander-lust,"  strange  and  mysterious  that  has  been 
stirring  in  my  blood  for  months — the  fever  of  unrest  and 
restlessness  that  has  been  upon  me,  already  seems  slipping 
from  me.  A  drop  of  the  old  Aryan  blood  leavens  my  being, 
and  the  migratory  instincts  of  birds,  the  quivering  of  invisible 
wings  that  have  kept  me  restless  and  unsatisfied  for  so  long, 
are  quiet,  now  that  I  am  speeding  like  the  winds,  on,  and  on 
toward  Mexico. 

I  recall  dun  rivers  of  shifting  sands,  gleaming,  tawny  and 
yellow  amid  sparse  grasses  and  sage  and  grease-wood.  There 
were  sapphire  lakes  and  dry  arroyos  in  whose  depths  the  cacti 
and  nasturtiums  made  great  splashes  of  color.  In  moist 
water-ways  there  were  brilliant  wavy  lines  of  purple,  bor 
dered  by  the  yellow,  misty,  quivering  mustard  blossoms  that, 
like  death,  have  all  seasons  for  their  own  in  California. 

There  were  wonderful  days  and  strange  visions  at  night. 
One,  I  remember,  when  propped  upon  my  pillows  I  watched 
the  effect  of  the  weird  moonlight  upon  that  desolate  region  of 

3° 


FROM   THE   WORLD  31 

the  Salton  Sea.  The  light  brooding  over  it  was  like  the  gray, 
pallid  light  of  death,  it  seemed  so  cold  and  lonely.  The 
engine's  black  breath  left  streaks  above  the  white  desert  and 
hovered  over  the  stunted  shrubs  and  gaunt  cacti  that  spread 
out  whip-like  branches.  As  w£  went  further  on  there  were 
other  and  varied  species  of  cacti,  with  vicious  thorns  sternly 
and  solemnly  pointing  in  silence  to  the  starlit  skies. 

We  are  getting  into  the  dreamy  belt,,  where  things  seem 
unreal  and  fanciful.  There  are  mirages  that  are  more  beau 
tiful  and  entrancing,  more  fascinating  than  realities  we  have 
passed.  There  are  atolls  in  placid  seas  which  seem  to  rise 
and  fall  about  them  as  the  rosy  light  of  the  sun  pierces  the 
blue  mist  and  glints  the  pulsing  waves  lapping  their  shores. 

Anon  there  were  rivers  and  lakes  bordered  by  forests,  all 
so  faithfully  mirrored  in  their  depths  that  it  was  hard  indeed 
to  believe  the  vision  was  not  real. 

Strange  corformation  of  mountains  are  on  every  hand,  as 
we  speed  on  over  the  table-lands  of  Mexico.  There  are  vast 
stretches  of  land  that  know  no  May  or  June,  where  the 
breath  from  moist  mosses  and  delicate  flowers  and  buds  are 
unknown. 

There  are  no  soft  twitterings  from  happy  birds,  no  dewy 
mornings  or  moist  twilights.  The  dear  old  earth  is  not  so 
alluring  here.  There  is  no  wet  loam  whose  steaming  warmth, 
fragrant  with  herbs,  comes  like  incense  into  the  nostrils.  No 
gurgling  brooks  or  babble  of  gossipy  rivulets  are  here  to  tell 
the  story  of  bird  and  insect  life,  and  happy  denizens  of  for 
est  and  plain  of  other  countries. 

But  there  is  a  fascination  in  the  desolate  regions  that 
stretch  on  and  on  in  such  a  wonderful  vista  of  color,  shading 
from  gray  to  violet  tints,  in  the  solemn  silence  brooding  over 
the  lifeless  deserts;  even  as  a  zopilote — or  buzzard — now 
and  then  is  seen  far  up  in  the  sky,  poising  on  still  and  seem 
ingly  lifeless  wings,  over  the  gray  infinity  of  space. 

But  the  precursor  of  civilization — our  train — is  speeding 
along  the  trail  of  the  Toltecs  and  Aztecs.  It  is  the  great 
"road-runner,"  wingless,  yet  skimming  along,  girding  the 
old  Montezuma  land  with  glittering  tracks.  And  in  the 
kaleidoscopic  changes  that  have  been  strangly  interesting,  we 
come  at  last  to  the  cultivated  lands  of  Mexico.  We  see  the 


32  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

great  haciendas,  from  whose  high-walled  enclosures  the  flocks 
come  forth.  There  are  immense  herds  of  cattle  going  in  one 
direction;  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  black,  brown  and  white, 
guarded  by  their  Indian  shepherds  in  another.  There  are  the 
peons  tilling  the  soil  where  grow  the  corn  and  cotton.  The 
land  is  cut  in  small  squares  with  deep  trenches,  deeper  than 
I  have  ever  seen,  except  in  Greece,  showing  the  need  of  irri 
gation  and  the  abundance  of  water  for  it. 

Cotton  is  perennial  and  needs  to  be  planted  but  once  in 
three  years,  the  soil  being  wonderfully  fertile  and  needing 


PLOWING    IN     MEXICO. 


but  little  cultivation,  their  queer  wooden  plows,  barely 
scratching  the  surface;  and  yet  it  produces  two  or  three  crops 
of  certain  things  a  year. 

I  see  women  in  the  huts  grinding  the  softened  corn  on  the 
metatas.  Others  standing,  bare-limbed,  in  the  ditches  wash 
ing  the  clothes  in  water  that  often  looks  unfit  for  the  purpose. 

There  are  overburdened  men  and  donkeys  toiling  with 
loads  of  wood  and  corn  almost  beyond  endurance,  the 
donkeys  subsisting  on  any  stray  bit  of  straw  or  grass  they 
may  find. 

The  peon  works,  in  this  land  of  cheap  silver,  for  thirteen 
cents  per  day,  eating  his  tortillas  and  drinking  pulque,  if  he 


FROM   THE   WORLD  33 

has  a  spare  centavo.  His  meat,  if  he  has  any,  is  often  the 
entrails  of  fowls  and  animals.  But  we  are  in  the  tropics,  and 
though  the  wind  is  often  piercingly  cold,  they  live  without 
meat,  in  the  main,  and  wear  as  few  clothes  as  possible. 

And  then,  one  dull  gray  morning  we  find  ourselves  in  Zaca- 
tecas.  I  see  square  buildings,  low  and  flat-roofed,  huddled 
and  barnacled  against  the  hill-sides.  There  are  domes  and 
towers  dominating  them.  Broken  gray  walls  show  here  and 
there,  and  I  think  a  bit  of  the  Orient,  a  portion  of  Palestine 
has  dropped  down  here  in  this  cactus-lined  country. 


TEMPLE  OF  GUADALUPE,  ZACATECAS. 

There  are  terraces  and  steep  declivities,  reminding  me  of 
Bethlehem.  There  is  the  public  fountain  with  the  unveiled 
but  reboso-draped  women,  doubled  up  over  the  high  curbing, 
scooping  up  the  scanty  supply  of  water,  filling  the  large  red 
earthen  jars,  mere  girls  carrying  such  heavy  loads  that  I  do 
not  wonder  so  many  of  the  women  are  undersized.  I  think 
they  telescope  the  vertebra  of  the  spinal  column  at  an  early 
age  and  never  get  pulled  out  later  in  life. 

We  visited  the  chapel  of  the  Guadalupe,  some  miles  distant 
from  Zacatecas,  which  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  prettiest  in 
Mexico,  rich  in  gold,  silver  and  onyx  trimmings.  The  high 
altar  wras  gorgeous,  and  the  inlaid  floors  were  a  decided  con- 


34  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

trast  to  the  worn  and  uneven  floor  of  the  old  church,  which 
was  more  interesting  to  me  in  its  old  age  than  the  new  chapel, 
which  simply  represented  wealth,  being  the  gift  of  some 
person. 

Fred  said,  "Let  us  see  the  market;  I  fancy  we  will  find 
something  of  interest  there." 

Old  and  quaint  indeed  we  found  it.  A  motley  throng  of 
people  were  wandering  among  the  little  heaped-up  sections, 
representing  inches  or  feet,  according  to  the  quantity  the 
owners  possessed.  Everything  one  could  think  of  was  here. 
Small  bunches  of  vegetables,  usually  half  a  dozen  in  each 
heap.  There  were  beans  and  corn,  tamales,  tortillas,  turkeys, 
chili,  charcoal,  chickens,  and  narancas  (oranges),  which  we 
found  very  sweet  and  luscious.  There  were  roots  and  edible 
grasses,  crockery,  quaint  sandals  and  the  omnipresent  scrapes 
and  rebosos  for  the  men  and  women. 

Fred  was  more  interested  than  he  has  been  so  far.  His 
artistic  temperament  has  been  aroused  and  surely  these  half 
naked  people,  especially  the  children,  would  make  very  at 
tractive  pictures.  I  fancy  he  will  find  something  to  do  in  the 
line  of  sketches  and  paintings  as  soon  as  he  finds  the  time  and 
I  hope  he  may  very  soon,  for  it  will  serve  to  divert  his  mind 
from  the  fickle  fair  one  left  behind.  There  are  some  very 
attractive  faces  here,  Jack,  that  would  make  your  old  cal 
loused  heart  give  an  extra  thump. 

I  once  thought  the  Italians  could  take  the  blue  ribbon  for 
ill-treatment  of  their  horses,  but  I  had  not  visited  Mexico 
then.  The  donkeys  bearing  heavy  burdens  were  prodded 
unmercifully  and  some  I  saw  pulling  the  street  cars  were 
lashed  into  a  gallop  by  merciless  drivers,  the  whips  cutting 
into  their  sides  and  legs  at  every  jump.  Tottering  with  fa 
tigue  and  weakness  it  seemed  the  beasts  were  being  subjected 
to  the  very  acme  of  brutality  and  I  turned  my  eyes  away  from 
the  tortured  creatures. 

The  natives  here  seem  to  be  but  little  better  off  than  the 
overburdened  donkeys,  they  are  so  miserable,  ragged  and 
unkempt.  Such  poverty  I  have  never  seen,  not  even  among 
Italy's  beggars.  Here  the  wretched  lazzaroni,  with  senses 
steeped  in  pulque,  dripping  with  vermin,  infest  the  plazas 


FROM   THE   WORLD  35 

.and  jostle  one  in  the  streets.     The  dirt  and  grime  make  my 
civilized  cuticle  shrink  with  fear. 

Seeking  rest  from  the  filth  of  the  streets  I  entered  an  old 
, church  on  our  return  to  Zacatecas,  for  my  stomach  was  in 
clined  to  turn  somersaults  at  some  of  the  scenes.  A  Madonna 
and   some   candles   at  the   altar   at   the   farther   end  of  the 
church  showed  dimly  and  herein  were  the  poor  asking  aid 
,  from  above  but  keeping  an  eye  on  the  stranger,  also.     On 
Heaving,   a  wretched  figure  at  the  portal,  so  deformed  and 
drawn  that  his  face  was  on  the  bias,  one  eye  being  a  couple 
of  inches  higher  than  the  other,  begged  me  so  piteously  for 
:  centavo  that  the  milk  of  human  kindness  was  something  more 
than   skimmed   milk,    for  it   instantly  turned   into   whipped 
:  cream,  and  1  counted  out  the  coveted  centavos  until  his  poor, 
dull  eyes  brightened,  and  he  said,  "Gracia,  Senor,"  over  and 
[over,  while  from  his  poor  old  eyes  rolled  tears  of  thankful- 
jness;  sobs  and  words  of  praise  to  Madre  de  Dios  made  me 
I  the  worn,  but  willing  traveler,  feel  glad  that  I  had  bestowed 
j  a  little  of  the  cheap  coin  of  the  country  upon  so  needy  an 
object.     I  went  away  more  content,  knowing  he  would  have 
•-•  food  for  days  to  come,  for  there  is  a  great  deal  of  suffering 
in  Zacatecas. 

The  silver  mines  that  have  yielded  untold  wealth  and 
have  been  worked  since  the  fifteenth  century,  are  closed,  and 
the  people  who  have  known  no  other  employment  for  gen 
erations,  whose  ancestors  burrowed  into  these  surrounding 
hills  from  whose  rock-ribbed  sides  untold  millions  have  been 
taken,  are  now  mostly  without  employment. 

As  I  leave,  my  last  glance  rests  upon  a  trail  leading  up  to 
ithe  Church  Los  Remedies,   high  on  a  hill  above  the  city, 
;  where  the  faithful  go,  inch  by  inch,  on  their  knees  for  pen 
ance  and  absolution.     I  thought  to  walk  the  rough  streets; 
to  live  where  every  drop  of  water  used  must  be  carried  from 
the  fountain  to  the  houses,  some  such  weary  distances  away, 
would  be  penance  enough  for  most  things  one  could  be  guilty 
of  in  Zacatecas. 


"The  soul  of  music,  I  have  heard  men  say, 
Is  to  have  grieved." 

A  CHILD'S  GRIEF 
ALICE  HEATON'S  STORY 

A  little  child  lay  on  a  small  mound  where  grew  no  grass 
or  flowers,  sobbing  her  little  heart  out  because  there  was  only 
the  bare,  yellow  soil,  so  unlike  the  graves  near  by  which  were 
well  kept  and  beautiful,  in  the  closely  trimmed  sward  with 
growing  plants  and  cut  flowers  in  abundance. 

"O,  mama,  mama,"  she  cried,  "why  is  the  earth  so  bare? 
You  loved  flowers  so  much.  Why  does  not  God  let  them 
grow  over  your  dear,  sweet  face?  Never  mind,  you  shall 
have  them,  1  will  put  them  over  you  and  hide  the  ugly  earth." 
And  away  she  sped. 

There  was  a  florist  near  by.  She  remembered  seeing 
flowers  in  great  bunches  at  the  door  as  she  went  to  the  cem 
etery.  Snatching  several  bunches  of  them  she  was  away  like 
a  flash,  and  ran  with  all  her  strength  toward  the  cemetery, 
so  intent  on  her  errand  of  love  that  she  did  not  observe  that 
she  was  pursued  by  a  man. 

A  woman  clad  in  mourning  saw  the  child  running  with  her 
pursuer  after  her  and  followed.  As  the  child  fell  on  the 
grave  with  her  arm  full  of  flowers,  she  raised  her  hand  beck 
oning  to  the  man  who  pursued.  He  paused,  breathless,  in 
his  efforts  to  overtake  the  child. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  the  woman  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"She  stole  the  flowers  from  our  place,"  he  replied. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  said,  as  he  started  forward,  for  the 
child,  recovering  her  breath,  was  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  and  then  began  to  dig  in  the  earth  with  her  little  fingers 
planting  the  flowers  in  the  bare  soil. 

"Mama,  dear,"  they  heard  her  say,  while  the  tears  were 
again  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "You  shall  have  the  dear 

36 


FROM   THE   WORLD  37 

little  flowers  growing  above  you.     I  will  find  them  some 
where,  even  if  I  get  them  as  I  have  today,  and  I  will  find 

•some  grass,  too.  You  know  how  we  used  to  gather  the 
flowers  and  how  we  loved  them.  O  mama,  are  you  lonely 
down  there  ?  I  am  here  talking  to  you  and  telling  you  how 
lonely  I  am,  too.  And  I  am  so  afraid  at  night.  I  have  no 
one  to  tuck  me  in  bed  and  to  kiss  me.  Nobody  at  all,  dear 
mama,  to  cuddle  me  up  and  sing  to  me  as  you  once  did." 

Tears  fell  from  the  woman's  eyes  as  she  turned  and  mas 
tering  her  emotions  asked,  in  a  choked  voice. 
I     "How  much  are  the  flowers  worth?" 
The  man  raised  his  chin,  as  if  swallowing  something,  then 
said,  "Never  mind,  let  her  have  them.     But,  perhaps,  you 
had  better  speak  to  her  and  make  her  understand  that  it  is 
wrong  to  steal."    And  he  went  away. 

Waiting  until  the  little  girl  had  planted  her  flowers  the 
woman  went  up  to  her  and  asked : 

"What  are  you  doing  here  alone,  my  child?" 
"I'm  not  your  child;  I'm  nobody's  child.     My  mama  is 
down  there.     I  saw  them  put  her  in  and  throw  the  great 

,  clods  on  her  coffin.  Then  they  took  me  away  though  I  cried 
and  begged  them  to  let  me  stay.  I  didn't  want  to  leave  her 
in  the  dark.  You  know  she  never  left  me  in  the  night  alone. 
She  always  sat  by  me  and  talked  and  sang  to  me  until  I  went 

:  to  sleep.  I  ran  away  this  morning  and  came  here.  I  thought 
there  would  be  some  geramiums  and  bervenas  growing  here." 

.:!      The  woman  smiled  at  the  pronounciation,  but  waited  in 

it  silence  as  the  child  continued. 

"I  saw  the  other  graves  were  all  covered  with  grass  and 
flowers  when  they  took  me  away." 

"Well,  dear,  you  must  wait  and  maybe  some  verbenas  and 
geraniums  will  grow.  Perhaps  God  will  see  to  it.  But  you 
must  never  take  any  more  flowers  as  you  have  done  today. 

\t  Do  you  not  know  that  it  was  wrong  that  you  stole  them?" 

err     "No,  I  did  not  know.     I  thought  flowers  were  for  every- 

i  body.  We  always  had  them  until  mama  was  sick,  and  we 
icame  to  town.  I  did  not  know  it  was  wrong,  and  if  it  is  I 

re  will  get  them  anyway.     If  God  don't  treat  her  like  he  has 

-.:  the  others,  I  will  do  it  myself."  And  she  straightened  herself 
up  with  a  determined  air. 


3 8  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 


"You  must  wait.  It  will  take  time.  All  these  graves  once 
looked  like  your  mother's.  They  were  bare  at  first.  Do  you 
not  know  it?" 

"No.  I  was  never  in  a  place  like  this  until  they  brought 
my  mama  here.  I  hate  the  cold  earth.  She  loved  the  little 
flowers  so  much.  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it.  I  want  my  mama,  and 
I  want  to  die,  too.  I  could  jump  into  the  river,  you  know 
and  die  quickly.  I  saw  a  little  bird  fall  into  the  water  once 
I  would  just  keep  my  head  under  the  water.  It  wouldn't  take 
long,  would  it?"  she  asked,  earnestly. 

"Not  very  long,"  replied  the  woman,  "but  who  would  be 
left  to  look  after  your  mother's  grave  if  you  were  not  here?' 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I  only  know  how  my  throat 
hurts  when  1  think  of  her  and  want  her  arms  around  me. 
want  to  go  to  her,  whether  it  is  Heaven  or  Hell  I've 
heard  the  preacher  talk  about.  It  would  be  all  I  want,  jus 
to  be  with  mama.  I  don't  care  where  it  is,  if  I  can  only  be 
with  her." 

"You  will,  dear,  some  time.  God  knows  best,  but  you  mus 
try  to  be  patient." 

"How  do  I  know  what  God  thinks  or  does?  He  hasn' 
been  very  kind.  Look  at  this  grave  with  nothin'  at  all  bu 
dirt,  only  what  I  have  put  on  it,  and  that  you  tell  me  is  wrong 
I  hate  God  and  the  angels  and  don't  believe  they  care." 

And  the  poor  child  put  her  hands  to  her  throat  and  san 
down  beside  the  grave. 

"Has  no  one   told   you   that   your   mother  has  gone  to 
beautiful  land  where  there  are  always  flowers  and  music;  s-j 
many  flowers  that  it  must  seem  pitiful  to  the  dear  angels  u 
there,"  and  she  pointed  to  heaven,   "when  they  see  us,  e 
penally  you,  as  you  were  a  few  minutes  ago  putting  the  poo 
perishable  flowers  in  the  ground  that  will  soon  wither  an 
fade  away." 

"Do  you  think  they  will  give  her  flowers?"  she  aske*! 
anxiously. 

"Surely,  and  she  will  have  far  more  beautiful  ones  thzf 
you  have  ever  seen.     She  will  have  more  than  enough  for  yr 
and  herself  when  you  go  to  her.     But  you  must  not  hate  G( 
and  the  angels.    You  must  love  them  and  try  to  do  right  ai  j, 


FROM   THE   WORLD  39 

be  kind  and  loving  to  all.  And  now  I  must  go.  Tell  me  your 
name." 

"Alice  Heaton,"  replied  the  child. 

"And  who  takes  care  of  you?" 

"Selma,  my  nurse,  and  I  must  hurry  back  for  she  will  be 
angry.  But  I  don't  care.  I'm  coming  again,  and  if  there 
are  flowers  here  I  shall  know  God  has  heard  me  ask  Him  to 
be  fair;  to  treat  mama  like  the  others.  I  shall  love  Him 
and  try  to  be  good  and  remember  what  you  told  me." 

"Go  home,  now,  pray  to  God  and  see  if  your  prayers  are 
not  answered.  Keep  saying  'God  is  good.  He  knows  all 
will  be  well.'  Promise  me  you  will  do  so." 

"I  will.  I  feel  better  now.  You  are  kind  like  my  own 
mama.  Good-bye,"  and  she  ran  away  quickly. 

After  she  was  gone  the  woman  went  to  the  florist  near  the 
cemetery  and  directed  him  to  plant  geraniums  and  verbenas 
on  the  grave.  "Do  so  at  once,  cover  it  all  over,  keep  them 
growing  throughout  the  whole  year,  and  send  the  bill  to  me." 
Giving  her  address  she  left  hoping  that  when  the  child  saw 
the  grave  again  she  would  believe  that  'God  had  been  fair* 
and  her  little  jealous  heart  satisfied. 

"Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 
Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ?  " 

Every  morning  the  sun  and  shade  fought  disputing  inch 
by  inch  for  possession.  When  the  sun  had  conquered  the 
cold,  black  shadows  and  drove  them  from  the  angle  of  the 
old  wall  I  would  go  and  nestle  in  the  warm  sunny  nook  and 
watch  the  padres  at  work  in  their  garden.  It  looked  peace 
ful  and  beautiful  to  me  within  that  little  gray,  walled-in 
Eden,  filled  with  vines  and  palms. 

I  used  to  look  with  longing  eyes.  There  were  no  forbid 
den  fruits  for  them  and  I  rebelled  at  the  idea  that  they  could 
eat  the  great  clusters  of  grapes  while  I  was  barred  from  them. 
I  had  an  abundance  of  fruit  and  food,  but  none  was  ever 
half  so  tempting  to  me  as  those  hanging  inside  the  fence 
through  which  I  would  gaze  with  envy. 

The  garden,  small  and  meagre  enough,  was  of  more  in 
terest  to  me  than  the  freedom  of  the  world  without.  It  was 


4o 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


simply  the  idea  that  I  could  not  get  in  the  garden  that  made 
my  childish  heart  rebel. 

But  the  walls  of  the  old  Mission,  its  arches  and  cold  stone 
floors,  were  of  unfailing  interest  to  me  until  I  grew  old 
enough  to  learn  of  what  small  compass  were  the  lives  of  the 
padres. 

I  often  thought  it  would  be  heavenly  to  wear  a  long,  brown 
apron  tied  with  a  rope.  Then  I  could  play  in  the  dust  and 


MISSION    SANTA   BARBARA. 


roll  like  the  sparrows  if  I  liked  and  not  be  punished  for  get 
ting  my  clothes  soiled  and  hear  the  "Don't  be  so  naughty, 
Alice.  Try  to  keep  your  clothes  clean  like  Ruth."  "Ruth," 
I  grew  to  hate  the  name  and  the  girl.  She  was  never  very 
fond  of  playing  in  the  sand,  the  acme  of  delight  to  me,  to 
build  little  mounds  and  fashion  houses  of  sticks  and  build  \ 
walls  like  the  dear  old  Mission  I  loved  so  well. 

I  remember  the  last  time  we  played  together  and  that  she 
refused  to  go  with  me  in  quest  of  water-cresses.  She  taunted 
me  with  being  untidy  and  said: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  41 

"Go,  keep  yourself  unclean  and  spotted  from  the  world." 
I  was  hurt  and  hid  away  behind  the  hedge  but  I  heard  her 
.mother  reproving  her,  telling  her  she  was  unkind  and  some- 
lithing  I  did  not  understand  about  not  saying  it  right;  that  it 
fwas  different  in  the  Bible.  I  resolved  I  would  find  out  for 
.  myself  sometime  and  kept  repeating  the  words  over  and 
over  until  they  were  indelibly  fixed  in  my  mind. 

I  ran  home  shortly  afterwards.    I  remember  the  house  was 

in  confusion;  that  I  was  not  allowed  to  see  my  mama  and 

there  was  terror  in  my  heart.     Everybody  seemed  distressed. 

|  Nurse  tried  to  divert  my  mind.     It  seemed  like  a  horrible 

if  dream  and  it  was  still  more  horrible  when  they  told  me  my 

a  mama  was  dead;  that  she  had  gone  to  heaven  and  left  me 

with  only  my  nurse. 

I  cried  and  wanted  my  own  mama,  and  it  seemed  as  though 

!  I  should  die  when  they  took  her  away  and  put  her  in  the 

{ grave.     I  hated  heaven  and  God,  and  the  angels,  where  they 

i  told  me  she  had  gone.     I  needed  her  for  I  was  a  little  child 

and  had  no  one  whom  I  loved  or  who  loved  me  as  she  did. 

I  dimly  recall  running  away  and  going  to  her  grave;  of 
taking  some  flowers,  and  a  kind  lady  who  spoke  to  me  who 
comforted  me  in  some  way.  Then  I  remember  we  went  away 
the  next  day.  I  was  not  permitted  to  go  to  her  grave  again. 
I  was  put  in  a  school  where  there  were  a  lot  of  other  girls 
where  after  a  time  my  grief  grew  less  and  finally  the  memory 
of  the  life  near  the  old  Mission  and  my  loss  became  indis 
tinct  and  almost  forgotten. 

Being  left  alone  among  strangers  I  grew  up  wilful  and 
careless,  but  given  to  solitude,  and  having  no  confidential 
companions  grew  into  the  habit  of  writing  my  thoughts  down 
which  I  kept  concealed  from  all  eyes  save  my  own. 

It  (did  not  take  me  very  long  to  find  out  that  I  was  envied 
by  the  girls  in  the  school  for  my  mirror  showed  a  face  that 
was  different  from  theirs  and  at  times  some  of  them  would 
praise  my  hair,  my  eyes,  and  complexion,  telling  me  how 
beautiful  I  was. 

This  made  me  happy  and  as  I  grew  up  into  a  tall,  slender 
maiden,  somehow  when  anyone  spoke  of  my  beauty  I  would 
always  think  of  Ruth  and  I  wished  for  only  one  thing  on 


42  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

earth,  and  that  was  to  find  Ruth  when  I  should  be  out  ol 
school,  and  hoped  that  I  would  be  more  beautiful  than  she. 

Strange  that  in  forgetting  so  much  that  happened  in  nr 
young  life  my  memory  clung  to  that  last  time  I  saw  her  and 
her  words  which  seemed  an  insult  to  me.     Possibly  the  loss 
of  my  mother  helped  to  fix  them  in  my  mind — "Unclean  andl 
spotted  from  the  world" — I  knew  now  the  real  quotation  and 
I  hated  her  in  my  heart  for  the  injustice.     I  knew  I  was  clean 
bodily;  that  I  was  fair  to  look  upon,  and  the  thought  of  sin 
or  wrong,  except  my  dislike  for  her,  had  not  entered  into  my 
mind. 

Strange  how  trifles  will  change  our  likes  and  dislikes,  how 
very  little  it  takes  to  make  an  enemy  or  a  friend  in  this  world J 

And  then,  one  day  I  found  my  school  days  at  the  convent 
were  ended.  I  was  told  that  I  was  to  be  taken  to  the  home 
of  my  adopted  parents  and  I  was  taken  away  by  a  middle- 
aged  woman  who  came  after  me.  She  seemed  surprised  when 
she  saw  me  and  heard  my  name,  Alice  Heaton. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  find  such  a  grown-up  young  lady."  1 
heard  her  say  to  the  Mother  Superior. 

"She  is  not  very  large  or  strong,  I  think,  and  she  should 
be  allowed  to  live  out  doors  for  a  while,  at  least,"  replied  the 
Mother.  "But  she  has  been  a  good  student  and  is  far  better 
educated  than  most  girls  of  her  age.  She  has  never  cared 
for  the  society  of  other  students,  seemingly  preferring  the 
teachers  or  myself,  and  I  am  sure  her  adopted  parents  will  be 
pleased." 

Though  spoken  in  an  undertone  I  heard  every  word  and 
was  proud  to  be  praised.  I  had  never  been  told  I  had  been  a 
good  student  or  praised  in  any  way  that  I  remembered.  I 
was  anxious  about  my  new  home  and  dreaded  leaving  the 
convent,  the  only  home  I  knew.  I  asked  a  question  or  two 
after  we  started  on  our  journey,  but  Miss  Hill  was  not  com 
municative.  I  only  learned  that  my  adopted  parents  were 
old;  that  they  had  known  my  mother.  But  beyond  that  she 
would  or  could  not  tell  me. 

After  a  day's  journey  I  found  myself  in  the  house  of  my 
adopted  parents,  both  old  and  stern,  but  treating  me  with 
studied  courtesy,  never  giving  me  a  loving  word  or  a  kiss 
of  welcome.  I  was  shown  my  rooms  and  was  allowed  all 


FROM   THE   WORLD  43 

freedom  as  to  how  I  should  employ  my  time,  but  I  was  chilled 
when  in  their  presence. 

As  the  days  went  by  I  pondered  often  on  their  conduct 
and  wondered  why  they  adopted  me,  why  they  wanted  me 
with  them  when  I  was  sure  in  my  heart  they  were  ill  at  ease 
when  I  was  with  them.  One  day  I  heard  the  two  old  people 
talking  about  sending  me  away  to  Europe  with  Miss  Hill 
who  had  brought  me  to  them. 

"I  simply  cannot  endure  it  after  all  these  years.  It  is  as 
though  Alice  had  come  back.  She  is  the  image  of  her  mother 
when  we  two  went  away  and  left  her." 

There  was  a  sound  as  though  Mrs.  Browning  was  weeping. 
I  was  stricken  with  terror  lest  I  should  be  found  out  and 
accused  of  eaves-dropping  but  I  was  hidden  by  the  curtains 
and  had  been  reading,  and  in  reality  was  so  engrossed  in  my 
book  that  I  had  not  known  when  they  came  in.  So  I  dared 
not  stir. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Browning,  "I  am  sorry  we  have  brought 
her  here,  but  you  know  it  was  her  mother's  last  request  and 
something  had  to  be  done.  She  had  finished  there  and  they 
could  not  very  well  keep  her  at  the  convent.  We  could  not 
allow  her  to  teach,  you  know,"  and  he  sighed.  "Perhaps  we 
were  too  stern  with  her  mother.  We  might  have  found 
some  better  way." 

"Never.  I  could  not  have  lived  and  let  the  truth  be  known. 
She  did  not  care  for  us  and  I  ceased  to  love  her  as  I  once  did 
for  she  broke  my  heart,  and  cared  more  for  another  than  for 
me.  No,  every  day  the  girl  is  here  it  seems  to  grow  worse. 
I  thought  the  old  wound  was  healed  in  a  measure,  but  it  is 
not  so.  We  are  too  old  to  travel  and  it  may  do  her  some 
good,  and  will  keep  her  mind  occupied  until  she  is  older.  She 
brings  only  the  old  unhappiness,  the  deceit  and  treachery  of 
her  mother  into  this  house  where  we  must  stay,  and  must  re 
main,  for  I  could  not  endure  to  have  her  with  us  in  the  old 
home  where  her  mother  was  born.  We  must  guard  her 
closely  until  she  is  a  little  older  and  pray  God  we  can  find 
some  good  man  who  will  marry  her  before  she  knows  the 
ways  of  the  world.  We  will  keep  her  alone  as  much  as  pos 
sible  for  the  present.  O  God,  how  the  old  pain  comes  back!" 
and  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart. 


44  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Don't  think  more  of  it  than  you  can  help.  Our  way  has 
been  long  and  hard,  but  we  must  endure  as  best  we  can.  May 
God  in  heaven  eternally  condemn  to  perdition  the  cause  of 
all  our  misery  and  grief — him  and  his  children's  children — 
and  if  there  is  a  just  God,  may  he  in  the  midst  of  his  torments 
see  the  result  of  his  work  here !  Come,"  he  said,  arising,  "no 
more  of  this.  I  will  not  permit  it.  You  must  go  to  your 
room  and  rest." 

I  was  filled  with  amazement.  What  did  they  mean?  They 
knew  my  mother  and  said  I  looked  like  her.  But  why  should 
it  distress  them  ?  And  why  were  they  so  unhappy  when  1  was 
with  them  ?  Why  did  they  have  me  come  ?  All  the  perplex 
ing  "whys"  that  came  to  me — and  they  wanted  to  send  me 
away?  They  did  not  love  me — to  travel  a  while,  and  marry 
some  good  man. 

Over  and  over  I  found  myself  repeating  the  words.  I  was 
pleased  with  the  idea — marry  and  get  away  from  them.  I 
did  not  love  them,  and  now  that  I  knew  that  I  was  not  wel 
come,  but  only  tolerated,  I  was  determined  to  get  away  as 
soon  as  I  could. 

I  was  also  determined  to  question  Mrs.  Browning,  no 
matter  what  the  result  would  be.  I  wanted  to  know  some 
thing  about  my  mother  and  my  father,  too.  I  have  never 
heard  him  mentioned.  I  was  too  young  to  know  or  miss  a 
father  when  my  mother  died,  and  later,  at  school,  when  I 
grew  old  enough  to  ponder  over  it,  I  had  no  one  in  whom  I 
could  confide.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  adopted  by  some  peo 
ple  who  would  care  for  me  when  I  left  school;  that  they 
were  traveling  in  Europe,  having  lost  their  only  child,  and 
adopted  me  when  my  mother  died. 

I  seemed  to  dimly  recall  a  stern  looking  man  whom  I  had 
never  seen,  who  was  present  when  my  mama  was  buried.  But 
that  recollection  had  faded  out  of  my  mind  until  I  saw  Mr. 
Browning.  He  seemed  somehow  associated  with  my  grief 
and  terror  at  that  time. 

I  was  put  into  school  by  my  nurse  and  told  to  be  good  and 
ask  no  questions;  that  "my  mama  would  not  like  it."  That 
was  enough  for  me.  If  mama  wanted  me  to  be  good  I  would 
try  to  please  her,  for  I  thought  she  knew,  and  the  good  sis 
ters  encouraged  me  in  the  belief. 


(FROM   THE   WORLD  45 

But  now  that  I  am  a  woman  almost,  it  is  different  and 
though  in  the  house  with  my  adopted  parents  where  every 

*  comfort  and  luxury  except  the  luxury  of  love  was  mine,  I 
•^felt  I  must  ask  questions.     I  was  anxious  to  know  if  they 
i loved  my  mother.    Why  it  grieved  them  so  to  have  me  with 

them.     Why  did  they  love  her  once,  and  then  cease  to  care 
for  her? 

Oh,  the  misery  of  it  all !     I  had  never  been  treated  like 
other  girls  I  knew  it  too  well.    But  I  felt  I  would  brave  their 
displeasure  by  asking.     So  awaiting  my  opportunity,  I  asked. 
"Why  did  you  adopt  me?" 

Mrs.  Browning  looked  startled,  and  after  a  moment  said, 
<i"Why  do  you  ask  that  question?" 

"Because  I  am  old  enough  to  know  something  about  my- 

f'self.      I  have  always  been  kept  in  ignorance — have  never 

jknown  if  there  was  any  living  person  who  cared  for  me;  and 

4have  never  known  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  my  food, 

clothing  and  tuition.     You  know  something  about  my  par- 

jents.     I  know  my  mother  is  dead  but  tell  me,  is  my  father 

living?" 

I  looked  her  squarely  in  the  face.     She  evidently  knew  I 
.was  determined  not  to  be  put   off    any   longer.     Her    face 

*  became  death-like  in  its  pallor.  Somehow  she  reminded  me  of 
;the  look  I  saw  on  my  mother's  face  when  they  put  her  in  the 
i  coffin — a  look  that  had  haunted  me  all  my  life. 

"Why  do  you  ask  about  your  father?  Did  your  mother 
ever  mention  him?" 

"I  was  so  young  I  do  not  remember.  I  only  thought  of 
her.  I  never  heard  or  knew  anything  about  my  father." 

"Then  continue  to  think  of  her  and  ask  no  questions.  When 
you  are  of  age  or  we  are  dead,  there  is  something  you  will 
•learn,  but,"  and  her  voice  grew  stern  and  her  eyes  looked  so 
!  fierce  that  I  trembled,  "do  not  for  one  instant  forget  that 
i-you  are  not  to    ask    any    questions    about   your  mother  or 
father." 

She  hissed   the   last   word    as   though  she  could  not  put 
.enough  scorn  and  contempt  in  her  tone.     I  was  indignant. 

"Why  may  I  not  ask?  She  was  my  mother  and  you  knew 
her.  Why  has  my  life  been  spoiled?  I  have  never  been 
treated  like  other  girls  at  school.  Each  one  but  me  had  let- 


46  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ters,  gifts  and  loving  remembrances.  I  was  alone,  an  object 
of  sympathy,  and  as  I  now  realize  of  suspicion.  A  dead 
mother  was  all  I  had  to  make  me  feel  I  ever  belonged  to  any 
one.  You  never  sent  me  one  word  of  love  or  of  kindness. 
Yet  I  was  adopted  by  you  and  your  husband.  How  do  I 
know  that  I  really  belong  here,  and  why  am  I  here  if  you 
hate  the  name  of  my  mother?  And  now  you  tell  me  I  am 
not  to  know  if  1  have  a  father  living  or  dead." 

I  flung  the  words  at  her,  my  face  so  transfigured  by  hate 
that,  glancing  in  a  mirror,  I  scarcely  knew;  myself. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  wicked,  wicked  woman,  and  I  hate  you  for 
you  are  cruel.  Tell  me  one  thing,  this  instant,"  I  stormed. 
"Have  I  any  right  to  live  here  at  all?  Have  I  any  money  or 
do  you  and  your  husband"  (I  could  not  call  him  father  as  I 
had  been  requested  to  do  so)  "give  me  all  I  have?  If  so  I 
won't  live  another  day  under  your  roof.  I  can  live  some 
where  else  or  die.  It  would  be  easier  than  this  life  now  that 
I  know!"  I  paused  choking  with  tears  I  could  not  control. 

"Know  what?"  she  asked  faintly. 

"Know  that  you  hate  me  as  you  did  my  mother." 

"Hate  your  mother!  O  God,"  she  moaned,  and  sinking 
in  her  chair,  her  head  fell  back  and  I  screamed,  thinking  she 
was  dead.  The  maid  hearing  my  scream  of  fright  rushed 
in  and  summoning  help  they  worked  a  long  time  before  she 
showed  any  sign  of  life.  I,  trembling  and  contrite,  was  help 
less,  thinking  I  had  killed  her.  Yet  strange  enough  when 
she  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  taken  to  her  room  I  felt 
no  remorse,  but  in  some  way  felt  she  deserved  to  die. 

I  went  out  for  a  walk.  I  wanted  to  think  and  plan  out 
what  I  should  do.  One  idea  only  was  uppermost  in  my  mind 
that  was  to  get  away  from  the  two  inhuman  beings,  who, 
hating  my  mother,  must  also  hate  me.  I  would  be  true  to  her. 
I  would  not  eat  at  the  table  or  sit  and  hear  Mr.  Browning 
return  thanks  when  he  had  only  hate  in  his  heart  for  my 
beautiful  dead  mother. 

Oh,  the  bitterness  and  desolation  that  filled  my  heart.     ] 
threw  myself  down  on  the  green  grass  and  wept  as  I  had  noi^ 
wept  since  I  lost  my  mother,  sobbing  my  heart  out.     I  die 
not  hear  footsteps  and  knew  not  that  anyone  was  near  unti 
a  voice  said: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  47 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  child?" 
"I  am  not  a  child,  and  what  are  my  troubles  to  you?"  I 
demanded,   flinging  back  my  tangled  hair  and  darting  an 
ingry  look  through  my  tears  which  would  not  be  stayed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  going  up  to  the  house,"  point- 
ng  to  the  Browning  home,  "and  I  thought  you  had  fallen 
md  were  hurt." 

Dashing  the  tears  from  my  eyes  1  looked  up  again  seeing 
nore  clearly  and  my  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  for  a  inm 
ate,  choking  me  and  sending  the  blood  to  my  face  until  it 
Durnt  my  cheeks  and  neck.  I  had  never  looked  into  eyes  like 
lis  before.  Had  never  seen  a  man  so  handsome,  tall  and 
jtrong,  with  such  an  infinite  pity  showing  in  his  eyes  for  me. 
nvoluntarily  I  extended  my  hand. 

"I  am  sorry  I  was  rude  to  you,  but  I  am  hurt — sorely 

lurt,"  and  again  I  could  not  restrain  my  tears.     His  warm 

lasp  thrilled  me  with  a  strange,  new  sensation,  one  hitherto 

anknown  to  me.     I  wanted  at  that  moment  nothing  so  much 

n  all  the  world  as  to  fall  in  his  arms  and  tell  him  of  my 

roubles,  my  cheerless  life,  and  my  longing  for  love — some- 

g  :hing  denied  me,  and  unknown  since  my  mother  had  left  me 

iefi  small  child  to  the  coldness  of  strangers  and  a  strange  life. 

j     "Sit  down  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  still  holding  my  hand 

eie  continued:   "Some  time  when  we  know  each  other,  when 

rj.il  know  your  name  and  we  become  good  friends,  you  can  tell 

]  Then  he  smiled  and  his  eyes  looked  as  if  he  was  laughing 
it  me.  This  caused  me  to  flush  with  anger  and  shame  once 
nore.  I  longed  for  pity  but  resented  the  idea  of  being 
aughed  at. 

"We  shall  never  know  each  other  or  meet  again,"  I  said, 
vith  all  the  dignity  I  could  assume.  "My  adopted  father  does 
lot  entertain  at  all,  especially  strangers." 

"And  where  does  your  wise  and  good  adopted  father 
ive?" 

"He  is  not  good,  and  I  hate  them  both.  They  live  up 
here" — pointing  to  the  house  which  showed  through  the 
rees. 

tjl  "Surely  you  do  not  mean  that  Charles  Browning  is  your 
idopted  father?  I  did  not  know  he  had  an  adopted  child." 


48  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Neither  did  I  until  I  was  brought  here  from  the  convent 
recently.  I  had  heard  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there 
were  people  who  had  adopted  me,  but  they  never  came  to  seb 
me,  never  wrote,  and  now—  "  again  I  paused,  trembling  with- 
my  pent-up  grief. 

"Had  you  not  better  wait  until  some  other  time  before  you; 
say  anything  more?  I  see  how  you  are  suffering."  Anc| 
again  he  held  my  hand  in  his  strong  clasp. 

"No,"  I  sobbed,  "I  will  tell  you  now.  Perhaps  you  cad 
help  me,  for  I  am  going  away  from  here.  I  hate  the  place 
and  those  two  old  people.  They  are  cruel." 

"Poor  child.  How  could  they  be  cruel  to  you?  Surely 
they  could  not  be  other  than  kind  to  a  helpless  young  creaturd 
like  you." 

1  loved  him  for  the  look  and  the  way  he  said  "like  you" 
from  that  moment. 

"I  will  tell  you,  now,"  I  said,  "my  mother  died  when  I  was 
only  a  little  child  about  six  years  old.  I  knew  nothing  but 
love  until  she  died.  She  was  good  and  beautiful.  I  remem 
ber  well." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  he  replied,  with  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes, 

I  was  surprised  with  the  remark,  but  went  on.  "After  she 
was  buried  they  would  not  let  me  see  her  grave,  but  I  ran 
away  once  and  stole  some  flowers  to  put  on  her  grave." 

"You  stole  them?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  stealing,  or  wrong 
until  a  lady  came  to  the  grave  and  told  me.  It  was  so  bare 
and  desolate  I  wanted  flowers  for  it."  I  paused,  even  then 
I  could  not  think  of  that  poor  little  mound  without  a  pang 
for  myself,  and  my  desolation. 

"Then  nurse  took  me  away  from  there  to  a  convent  where 
I  have  been  ever  since  until  a  month  or  two  ago  when  they 
brought  me  here.  I  have  tried  to  ask  something  about  my 
dear,  dead  mother,  and  tried  again  today  to  find  out  from 
Mrs.  Browning  something  about  my  parents  and  asked  hei 
why  I  had  not  the  right  to  know  something  about  my  father 
and  mother.  I  have  never  heard  him  mentioned,  you  know. 
She  was  very  stern  and  angry  and  told  me  I  was  never  to  men 
tion  their  names  either  to  her  or  her  husband.  Then  I  told  hei 
I  knew  she  hated  my  mother  and  that  I  would  not  live  with 


FROM   THE   WORLD  49 

hem  any  longer.    At  that  she  fainted  and  when  they  brought 
ler  to,  and  took  her  to  her  room,  I  came  out  here  to  think 
nd  plan  what  1  should  do.     I  was  so  lonely  and—        Here 
had  to  stop — I  could  go  no  further. 

"Don't  say  another  word,  dear  child.     You  must  control 

ourself.     I  have  come  to  see  your  adopted  father  on  busi- 

icss;  you  have  been  brave  in  trying  to  smother  your  grief  in 

Jelling  me  your  pitiful  story.     Will  you  promise  me  to  stay 

Iiere  a  while,  no  matter  if  it  is  hard  for  you,  if  I  give  you  my 

lolemn  promise  to  be  your  friend,  to  help  you  all  I  can  to 

j.nake  your  poor,  lonely  life  seem  more  desirable  to  you?     I 

Ivill  see  you  again,"  he  said. 

"Will  you — will  you,  truly?"  I  said,  clinging  to  his  hands, 
f 'Oh,  it  will  seem  like  my  own  dear  mother  was  here  again  to 
liave  some  one  to  care  for  me  just  a  little,  you  know — only 
li  little —  I  repeated,  my  heart  leaping  at  the  idea  that 
Jome  one  cared  for  me,  a  stranger  to  any  evidence  of  sym 
pathy  except  in  the  most  casual  way. 

"As  sure  as  we  two  live  I  shall  see  you,  and  soon.  Now, 
iheer  up,  and  don't  forget  your  promise,"  he  said,  as  he  went 
jiway  hurriedly,  never  pausing  or  looking  back  until  the  path 
lent  and  hid  him  from  me. 

I  sat  in  a  sort  of  dazed  stupor.  I  had  never  in  all  my  life 
round  anyone  who  seemed  to  care  for  me,  or  look  with  such 
Icind  and  tender  eyes  into  mine.  There  was  tenderness  in 
Iheir  depths  and  his  words  reassured  me.  Surely  I  would 
Jceep  my  promise.  I  would  show  him  I  could  be  something 
Jnore  than  a  child. 

New  sensations  were  stirring  within  me.  I  felt  like  an 
ther  being  than  the  one  who  had  run  in  heedless  anguish  and 
mpotent  fury  down  the  shaded  path  an  hour  ago.  I  seemed 
o  have  changed  in  that  short  time.  Something  new  and 
trange  had  come  into  my  heart.  I  no  longer  felt  that  I  was  a 
lesolate,  uncared  for  girl.  He  said  he  would  be  my  friend, 
kept  saying  over  and  over,  and  wandering  along  the  path, 
suddenly  stopped  with  a  start.  I  found  I  was  singing.  I 
lad  forgotten  my  grief. 


VI 

"Love  in  the  heart  can  no  more  be  exhausted  than  the  sweet  melodies 
in  the  throats  of  song-birds  !  " 

FRANK  LINDSAY  TO  JACK  GORDON 

"I  am  thoroughly  pleased  with  my  journey  so  far,  but  Fred 
does  not  seem  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  travel  as  I  wish  he 
would,  for  he  is  moody  and  irritable  at  times.  One  day  as  we 
were  passing  some  fascinating  bits  of  scenery  I  said,  "Fred 
isn't  this  simply  delightful?" 

"Yes,  but  how  much  more  satisfactory  if  one's  heart  were 
in  it.  If  one  could  look  upon  scenes  with  one  he  loved  be 
side  him.  If  the  heartaches  were  gone  and  one  could  look 
into  love-lit,  appreciative  eyes  now  and  then,  it  would  be  all 
in  the  world  I  could  ask  for  or  desire." 

"You  can't  forget  with  all  this  change  even  for  a  little 
while?"  I  asked  him. 

"1  cannot.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget.  She  is  my 
ideal,  my  love,  despite  everything.  I  love  her  and  shall  be 
true  to  that  love  though  she  does  not  care." 

"Don't  be  a  fool  and  play  the  ostrich." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  playing  the  ostrich?" 

"It  is  a  habit  of  the  ostrich  for  the  female  to  select  her 
mate.  She  chooses  one  according  to  her  liking  and  gives  him 
a  coy  peck  on  the  beak,  soothes  him  with  a  few  strokes  of  her 
neck  against  his,  and  the  marriage  ceremony  is  complete.  He 
follows  her  meekly  and  is  her  captive  for  life.  He  builds  the 
nest  as  is  right  and  proper,  but  when  the  eggs  are  laid,  he 
sits  on  them  all  of  the  night  and  half  the  day.  Now,  it  seems 
to  me  you  are  a  good  deal  like  the  average  ostrich.  A  wo 
man  made  a  pretense  of  loving  you,  kissed  you  and  allowed 
you  to  return  the  compliment,  and  now  you  are  willing  to  fol 
low  her  all  the  rest  of  your  days  and  be  the  dutiful  nonentity 
you  surely  would  be,  if  you  were  to  mate  with  a  woman  who 
has  proved  heartless  as  you  lead  me  to  believe." 

5° 


FROM   THE   WORLD  51 

"I  may  have  been  an  ostrich  in  some  other  sphere.  I  do 
not  know,  but  I  will  take  my  hat  off  to  the  ostrich  and  bow 
to  his  constancy.  Faithfulness  is  born  in  some  of  us,  others 
acquire  it,  and  I  am  so  constituted  that  I  am  not  fluctuating 
like  the  tide.  I  am  what  I  am,  and  without  looking  back 
ward  more  than  is  possible  nor  forward  for  that  matter,  I  try 
to  carry  my  burden  as  best  I  may,  whether  it  be  man-like  or 
ostrich-like,  as  you  please." 

"1  knew  of  one  ostrich  I  should  like  vou  to  imitate,"  I  told 
Fred. 

"Well,  tell  me  of  his  particular  characteristics." 

"This  up-to-date  ostrich  husband  discharged  his  duties 
faithfully  and  though  rather  deficient  in  the  matter  of  brain, 
was  capable  of  seeing  and  reasoning  as  it  proved.  For,  while 
he  was  dutifully  keeping  the  embryo  ostriches  warm  two- 
thirds  of  the  time  his  gay  consort  was  busily  engaged  in  flirt 
ing  with  another  fellow.  He  brooded  over  the  fact  as  well 
as  the  eggs,  all  the  while  feeling  his  nails  growing  longer;' 
and  though  his  legs  were  rather  cramped  from  lack  of  exer 
cise  he  arose  in  all  the  dignity  of  outraged  ostrich-hood  one 
day  and  making  a  law  unto  himself  kicked  his  gay  wife  to 
death." 

Fred  laughed  at  the  sketch  I  had  drawn  as  I  hoped  he 
would,  for  I  try  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  love  affair  as 
much  as  possible. 

"I  know,  Frank,  that  you  think  me  weak,  and  perhaps,  I 
am.  Heaven  knows  I  would  willingly  forget,  even  'kick'  if 
I  could.  But  somehow  I  cannot  feel  revengeful.  I  cannot 
even  forget.  If  I  could,  it  would  be  easier  to  bear.  But  only 
a  little  while  ago  a  glint  of  sunshine  over  on  those  hills 
brought  back  a  day  not  very  long  ago  when  the  leaves  of 
gold  and  green  ran  riot  to  the  foothills,  when  the  jay-bird 
scolded  and  the  quail  piped  'cuidado,  cuidado,'  while  the 
wood-pecker  shrilled  'yakit,  yakit,'  from  the  pine  trees,  that 
she  told  me  she  loved  me,  and  would  always  love  me.  Frank, 
1  tasted  the  divine  elixir  on  that  day  which,  once  taken,  lasts 
forever.  For  it  means  to  me  as  it  has  to  others  who  have 
drank  of  the  sweetest  of  all  draughts,  aye,  even  the  bitterest, 
too,  as  I  know  and  feel  of  love — love  that  will  not  die  but 
will  abide  in  my  heart,  for  it  came  to  me  a  very  tidal  wave 


52  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

from  that  great  sea  of  love  that  pervades  the  whole  world 
which  by  some  wanton  chance  struck  me  and  left  me  without 
strength,  without  the  power  or  desire  to  recover  or  forget. 
I  only  know  that  I  shall  love  her  as  long  as  life  endures  and 
beyond  this  life,  if  God  wills." 

"Fred,  old  man,  I  wish  I  could  say  something,  a  consoling 
word,  but  I  cannot,  only  I  advise  you  to  try  to  enjoy  the  society 
of  other  girls.  I  know  the  girl  you  love,  she  has  those  wide- 
open,  blue  eyes,  that  go  so  well  with  her  fair  face  and  yellow 
hair.  She  is  sweet  and  fresh  to  look  upon,  as  June  roses  are 
fragrant  and  delicious,  But  there  are  narrow,  selfish  traits 
of  character — it  is  often  so — for  her  Madonna-like  face  does 
not  show  the  cruel  spirit.  Eyes  and  lips  speak  of  in 
nocence,  but  often,  as  in  her  case,  there  is  a  fiendish,  cat-like 
soul  in  her  fair  body.  I  know  how  she  played  with  Norman 
Duane,  even  before  you  knew  her,  won  his  heart  for  mere 
sport  and  the  vanity  of  it,  then  sent  him  adrift,  his  soul  seared 
and  his  heart  empty.  Yet  she  goes  on  her  smiling  way,  her 
beautiful  eyes,  bright  and  sparkling,  as  she  weaves  her  spell 
around  other  men  as  she  did  you,  my  friend.  So  I  ask  yon 
is  it  worth  while?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Yet  surely  it  cannot  have  been  in  vain 
my  love  for  her,  for  1  have  known,  if  only  for  a  brief  time, 
the  ineffable  bliss  of  a  close  embrace:  have  felt  her  heart 
throb  against  my  own  that  was  madly  beating,  suffocating  me 
with  the  blood  rushing  wildly  with  the  exquisite  happiness  of 
a  first  kiss  upon  her  lips.  A  whole  lifetime  was  centered  in 
that  blissful  moment  before  she  tore  herself  from  my  arms 
and  left  me.  It  was  afterwards  that  I  knew  it  was  but  a 
pretense  of  love  on  her  part,  and  not  maiden  innocence  and 
modesty  that  made  her  leave  me  so  hurriedly.  But  even  now, 
knowing  her  falseness  and  deceit  I  cannot  help  but  love  her 
and  feel  that  life  can  never  be  the  same  again  in  all  the  years 
that  may  be  mine." 

"Do  not  be  too  sure.  Don't  say  you  can  love  only  one 
girl  until  you  have  tried  to  love  others.  There  are  plenty 
with  true  hearts  whose  love  would  shame  yours,  perhaps. 
Try  one  with  gray  eyes.  She  will  not  fail  you,  but  will  be 
true  as  steel." 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


53 


"How  do  you  know?"  said  Fred,  looking  up  in  an  inter 
ested  way.  "Is  there  someone  you  know?  " 

"Never  mind.  We  are  talking  of  your  life  now.  Try 
your  best  to  enjoy  the  diversion  of  travel,  exercise  your  will 
power.  Forget  the  past,  live  in  the  present,  make  a  pretense 
of  love-making  as  she  did,  and  in  a  short  time  you  will  find 
out  that  what  you  think  is  impossible  is  in  reality  possible 
and  enjoyable.  And  now,"  I  said  to  him,  "let  us  forget  all 


MILK   VENDER    IN    MEXICO. 


that  is  past,  all  that  is  unpleasant,  if  possible,  and  try  to  en 
joy  this  wonderful  old  country  in  the  new  world." 

Thus  1  talked  to  Fred  as  we  passed  on  southward  from 
Zacatecas  through  a  fertile  and  well  cultivated  country. 
Fields  of  corn  and  grain;  groves  and  orchards  greeted  us 
until  we  found  ourselves  at  the  charming  city  of  Aguas  Cali- 
entes.  Here  there  is  an  abundance  of  water,  both  hot  and 
cold. 

Down  the  new  paseo  or  boulevard,  along  her  streets  and 
in  the  plaza  I  saw  palms,  bananas,  orange  and  umbrella  trees 
and  artistic  groupings  of  flowers  and  plants.  There  are  other 
artistic  groupings,  also,  consisting  of  natives — the  Reception 


54  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Committee,  I  call  them — who  are  always  in  evidence  at  every 
station  with  some  sort  of  wares  for  sale. 

Nearly  every  man  who  travels  knows  by  the  time  he  has 
passed  the  northern  boundary  line — twenty-three  and  a  half 
degrees  from  the  equator — and  entered  into  the  torrid  zone, 
that  Aguas  Calientes  is  the  place  for  Mexican  drawn-work  and 
the  majority  of  women  know  the  place  only  by  the  quality 
and  quantity  of  material  purchased  there.  Male  and  female, 
young  and  old  are  lined  up  displaying  all  sorts  and  kinds  of 
work.  "Pesos,"  "centavos,"  ring  in  one's  ears  from  the 
crowded  station,  until  one  wearies  of  feather-work,  hair-work, 
cotton  and  linen  drawn-work. 

Escaping  from  the  crowd  we  refused  the  offer  of  a  guide 
to  see  any  or  all  of  the  twelve  churches;  but  gladly  chose  one 
of  the  bathing  establishments  which  are  famous  for  their  hot 
baths  and  continued  on  our  journey  refreshed  in  body  and  in 
spirit. 

At  Silva  we  left  the  main  line  going  east  to  Marfil  by  rail, 
thence  some  miles  by  street  cars  to  Guanajuato — where  are 
located  the  richest  silver  mines  in  the  world, — up  the  ravine 
from  Marfil,  which  I  found  to  be  quite  a  Moorish  looking 
village,  over  a  road  which  took  eighty-five  years  to  build, 
but  which  is  so  substantial  and  good  that,  like  the  low,  stone 
houses,  it  looks  as  if  it  were  built  to  stay.  The  people  are  the 
cliff-dwellers  of  today,  for  the  hills  are  so  steep  that  niches 
are  cut  in  the  hill-side  for  the  houses.  There  are  terraces  and 
charming  nooks  at  the  upper  end  of  Guanajuato  where  the 
park  La  Presa  is  located,  which  is  the  chief  resort  of  the 
masses. 

Near  here  are  the  terraces  of  artificial  lakes  which  are  sup 
plied  from  springs  in  the  mountains,  and  water  being  scarce, 
as  in  so  many  places  in  the  Republic  it  is  stored  by  a  series  of 
dams  which  are  remarkable  in  their  system. 

Over  these  stone  dams  and  walls  were  all  sorts  of  clinging 
vines  running  riot.  Here  the  gorgeous  Bougainvilleas  flaunt 
their  rich  wine-red  blossoms  over  gray,  mossy,  stony  abut 
ments  and  retaining  walls,  trail  over  verandas  and  dip  into 
the  clear  water  that  in  placid  pools  lie  in  front  of  many  a 
charming  home. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  55 

The  private  residences  of  the  wealthiest  people  are  built 
near  these  lakes  and  are  mostly  of  stone  taken  from  the  quar 
ries  near  the  city.  Green  seems  to  be  the  predominating  color 
although  there  is  a  variety  of  beautiful  tints  and  colors. 

There -is  a  hint  of  the  vine-terraces  of  the  Rhine  and  a 
suspicion  of  Venice  with  the  walled-in  waterways  over  which 
are  fancy  bridges  connecting  with  the  streets. 

From  the  quarries  on  the  mountain  sides  we  saw  men 
bringing  down  on  their  backs  blocks  of  stone.  There  were 
frail  little  burros,  also  tottering  under  heavy  slabs,  and  then 
I  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  stone  houses  barnacled  on  the  ter 
raced  hills  with  only  goat-like  trails  leading  thereto.  Nowhere 
else  could  such  houses  be  built,  for  in  no  other  country  I  had 
visited  do  men  and  donkeys  bear  such  marvelous  burdens, 
carrying  all  the  stone  used  in  building  houses  and  public 
buildings. 

It  seems  to  me  there  should  be  shrines  put  up  all  over 
Mexico  as  a  tribute  to  the  burro  and  the  Indian,  so  much  has 
been  done  by  both.  The  traditional  mule  has  inadvertently 
or  otherwise  founded  churches,  discovered  mines,  and  located 
treasure.  He  and  the  visionary  Indian  have  been  the  "sure 
thing"  in  establishing  wealth  and  locating  places  of  worship, 
yet  neither  has  as  yet  had  any  recognition  unless  it  be  bearing 
ever  heavier  burdens. 

If  the  mule  that  discovered  the  mines  in  Guanajuato  had 
known  the  torture  he  was  to  inflict  on  his  kind  by  the  opening 
of  the  silver  mines,  he  would  not  have  tried  by  pantomime  or 
otherwise  to  have  emulated  Balaam's  beast.  For  in  these 
mines,  that  since  the  conquest  have  yielded  billions  of  gold 
and  silver,  or  about  three-eighths  of  the  total  yield  of  the 
globe  during  that  period,  the  mule  has  played  an  important 
part  in  the  reduction  works  and  extracting  the  ore. 

Everything  connected  with  the  city  was  of  interest  to  us, 
and  if  the  work  be  a  little  hard  for  those  manana-lovi.no; 
people  they  are  at  least  prosperous  and  not  poverty  stricken, 
as  in  Zacatecas. 

We  went  through  the  prison  filled  with  convicts,  and  saw 
them  all  busy  at  various  trades.  They  are  not  kept  in  idle 
ness  here.  This  prison  is  historically  known  as  the  Alhondiga 
de  Granaditas,  which  Hidalgo  captured  in  his  fight  for  inde- 


5  6  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

pendence.  A  wreath  is  now  hung  where  his  head  was  exposed 
for  so  long.  Honor  came,  as  it  often  does,  later,  for  the 
Republic  is  now  Hidalgo's  true  monument. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  objects  in  the  city  is  the  Pan 
theon,  which  consists  of  about  ten  acres  of  ground,  perched 
high  upon  the  hill  above  the  town.  The  earth  of  this  ceme 
tery  was  carried  up  from  the  lower  levels  on  the  backs  of 
convicts. 

I  saw7  some  open  graves  from  which  the  bones  of  some 
poor  mortals  had  been  taken.  They  were  strewn  around 


CATACOMBS  OF  GUANAJUATO,  MEXICO. 

on  the  ground  while  the  grave  was  being  prepared  for 
another  new-comer.  The  bodies  are  put  in  the  ground  for 
five  years,  and  if  no  further  payment  is  advanced  the  bones 
are  taken  up  and  piled  in  an  underground  charnel  house. 

I  went  down  a  spiral  stairway  and  saw,  heaped  in  indis 
criminate  confusion,  the  bones  of  some  thirty  thousand 
manana  people  for  whom  there  are  no  tomorrows.  It  is 
worse  than  the  church  of  Cologne,  with  none  of  the  artistic 
effects  of  the  Church  of  the  Capucines  in  Rome,  though  at  one 
end  of  this  chamber  of  gruesome  memories  were  some  mum 
mies  in  good  preservation. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  57 

This,  the  fifth  city  in  Mexico,  is  progressive,  having  a 
theatre  four  stories  in  height  which  is  said  to  be  the  largest 
in  North  America  built  of  stone;  it  shows  such  a  variety  of 
colors  that  the  walls  look  as  if  they  had  been  frescoed,  and 
its  appointments  are  perfect. 

Our  time  was  all  too  short  in  this  city,  where  there  is  so 
much  that  is  odd,  instructive  and  interesting.  The  wonderful 
engineering,  the  ride  on  the  street  cars  back  to  Marfil,  the 
sharp  curves  and  dusty  roads  thronged  with  people,  driving 
the  donkeys,  children  and  pigs — everywhere  a  strange  medley 
greeted  us. 

We  saw  men  in  the  river  bed  with  spoon-shaped  affairs 
made  from  the  leaves  of  the  maguey  plant,  who  were  wash 
ing  the  black  mud  for  silver  that  may  have  escaped  from 
the  reduction  works. 

There  were  men  carrying  water  in  jars  which  are  almost 
as  long  as  the  carriers  themselves,  and  huddled  here  and  there 
were  groups  taking  their  afternoon  T.,  which,  taken  literally, 
means  the  everlasting  omnipresent  tortilla. 

Fashions  do  not  change  in  this  by-and-by  land.  They 
soften  the  corn  and  roll  it  on  a  flat  stone  with  another  one, 
grind  it  into  paste,  pat  it  in  the  hands  into  cakes,  then  bake 
it  on  a  thin  stone  or  metal  plate,  just  as  they  did  ages  ago, 
and  seem  content  with  their  inheritance. 


VII 

"Rome,  whatever  mood  is  hers, 

To  me,  she  is  entrancing  and  adorable." 

EDITH  HAMMOND'S  LETTER  TO  AILEEN  LIVINGSTON 

Yes,  dear,  I  am  in  sun-blest  Italy,  and  am  enjoying  every 
day  of  my  life  here.  Recollections  are  sweet  of  happy  times 
gone  by,  but  actual  living  in  the  present  is  worth  a  great  deal 
more.  This  world  is  given  us  to  make  the  best  we  possibly 
can  of  it  and  our  lives,  and  we  can  make  or  mar  our  days,  I 
fancy.  I  am  simply  living  up  to  my  ideas  of  making  the  best 
of  each  day  and  am  thankful  for  health  and  am  glad  to  be 
alive  and  to  appreciate  my  good  luck  in  being  here. 

I  am  not  wasting  hours  moaning  over  the  inevitable,  nor 
do  I  feel  like  an  old  aunt  of  mine  who  used  to  sing  "I  am  glad 
that  I  was  born  to  die,"  and  "Shed  not  a  tear  o'er  your 
friend's  early  bier." 

I  used  to  ponder  over  the  wrords  and  wondered  how  anyone 
could  be  glad  to  die,  and  asked  my  father  once  what  "early 
beer"  meant.  I  had  never  seen  him  drinking  beer  in  the 
morning  and  said,  "Why  does  auntie  sing  about  shedding 
tears  over  it?" 

He  was  drinking  his  usual  glass  of  beer  in  the  evening,  and 
he  looked  surprised  for  a  moment  and  then  had  such  a  fit  of 
coughing  and  choking  that  I  was  frightened,  but  was  not 
allowed  to  remain  long,  and  as  I  was  hustled  off  to  bed  I 
heard  him  laughing.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  knew  the 
difference  in  the  spelling  and  meaning  of  the  t\vo  wrords. 

Well,  at  any  rate  my  auntie  died,  and  she  begged  and 
implored  the  doctor  to  save  her  life.  She  did  not  feel  glad 
at  all  when  her  time  came  to  die,  and  I  fancy  a  few  of  us  are 
when  well  and  happy.  So  there  is  no  use  in  being  hypocrit 
ical,  but  make  the  best  we  can  out  of  our  lives,  and  when  the 
time  comes  that  will  end  the  drama  for  us,  try  to  meet 
it  bravely.  One  cannot  die  but  once  you  know.  There 
fore  I  am  enjoying  the  present  to  the  utmost  of  my  capacity. 

58 


FROM   THE   WORLD  59 

Today  I  lunched  in  a  trattior,  on  the  Aventine,  and  looked 
out  on  the  ruins  of  the  Palatine.  The  group  of  churches  on 
the  Coelian  Hill  were  sharply  defined  against  a  radiant  sky. 
Avalanches  of  snow-white  blossoms  fell  and  clustered  about 
the  steep  sides  of  the  Palatine,  making  a  vivid,  joyous,  bloom 
ing  life  above  the  old  ruins. 

How  I  wished  for  you  as  I  sat  in  the  palm-shaded  window- 
seat  and  watched  the  wavering  sunlight  sifting  through  the 
branches,  casting  a  cool,  greenish  light  in  the  dim,  old  hall 
that  reminded  me  of  cloistered  arcades  where  pale-faced 
nuns  once  walked  in  peace,  trying  to  forget  the  ruins  of  high 
hopes  amid  the  ruins  so  patent  and  tangible  about  them.  For 
this  is  an  old  brick  building  confiscated  from  the  church,  and 
one  thinks  of  the  days  when  this  was  a  refuge  from  the 
world's  cruelty  and  scorn. 

Within  the  shelter  of  these  cloisters  they  lived,  weighed 
down  by  the  brutal  force  of  matter  that  blasts  so  many  lives 
striving  for  some  unknown  joy,  some  reward  hereafter,  by 
renouncing  a  greater  part  of  all  that  makes  life  worth  living. 

1  fancy  it  did  not  then,  as  now,  take  very  long  to  disillusion 
them  to  the  bare,  colorless  existence  that  stretched  on  and 
on  in  endless  unvarying  days.  The  idea  is  not  at  all  pleasing 
to  me.  I  know  that  I  would  and  do  even  now,  with  the  old 
heart-ache  fierce  within  me,  make  the  best  that  I  can  of  my 
life. 

I  am  idealist  enough  to  love  life  that  has  color,  form, 
music  and  beauty  in  it,  and  though  oppressed  with  unsatisfied, 
longing  with  my  whole  soul  for  something  that  has  gone  out 
of  my  life,  there  is  yet  something  within  me  that  bids  me  not 
despair  but  look  hopefully  beyond  the  moment.  And  so  I 
am  not  altogether  dull  and  despondent. 

I  never  want  to  lose  my  illusions.  There  are  some  beauti 
ful  ones  left  in  me  yet, — the  illusion  that  there  is  love,  truth 
and  friendship  in  the  world  despite  my  experience.  These 
exist,  and  that  some  of  them  are  still  mine  is  much  indeed  to 
me.  Were  I  to  be  disillusioned  then  indeed  it  were  time  to 
die.  I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  necessary  for  life  to  be  a 
tragedy  and  I  am  not  exactly  striving  to  make  a  comedy  of 
mine.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  would  be  enjoyable  to  me. 

I  want  for  my  friends  only  those  who  can  see  and  speak  of 


60  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

the  best  that  is  in  those  they  know.  Who  look  upon  the  two 
evils  that  predominate  in  poor  humanity — envy  and  jeal 
ousy — as  if  they  were  immoral  and  should  be  avoided  as  such. 
And  who  look  upon  gossip  as  a  monster  of  so  frightful  a 
mien  that  an  introduction  should  be  avoided,  and  realize  that 
an  ignorance  of  the  bane  of  social  life — gossip — means 
peace  and  calmness  of  soul  and  conscience, — a  knowledge 
and  indulgence  thereof  means  moral  deterioration  and 
degrades  those  who  are  caught  in  its  wiles. 

I  want  all  the  sunshine,  all  the  brightness  of  life  that  is 
possible.  I  want  the  odor  of  flowers  and  all  the  fresh,  beau 
tiful  things  in  nature.  I  want  the  best  that  I  can  find  in  the 
dear  world,  for  methinks  the  true  philosophy  of  life  is  to  get 
as  much  sweetness  out  of  it  as  possible. 

Any  joy  that  is  not  shared  with  another  is  of  short  dura 
tion.  Therefore  I  must  share  some  of  the  delights  I  am 
enjoying  with  you,  knowing  your  appreciation  of  this  dear 
old  city  and  all  that  concerns  me  and  my  happiness  in  my 
travels. 

There  are  hours,  however,  which  are  rich  to  me, — hours 
of  solitude  which  I  do  not  care  to  share  with  the  unapprecia- 
tive  people  who  are  with  me,  for  in  those  hours  I  can  create 
a  heaven  of  my  own,  and  live  blissful  moments  in  retrospec 
tion  and  anticipation  or  let  the  high  tide  of  the  present  flood 
my  soul  with  the  sweet  things  that  are,  and  then  I  want  no 
one  to  share  those  joys  with  me.  Evanescent?  Yes,  but  sweet 
with  the  very  essence  of  life's  best,  which  is  at  least  com 
forting  and  soul-satisfying. 

Each  day  leaves  its  impressions  and  I  store  up  something 
that  may  enrich  my  life  and  may  be  of  some  use  to  others, 
— things  that  you  and  1  may  enjoy  when  we  meet  in  days  to 
come.  Yet  in  my  busy  moments  my  thoughts  often  fly  your 
way.  I  think  of  you  out  there,  beyond  the  plains,  among  the 
misty  blue  mountains,  by  the  stream  we  love  that  ripples 
joyously  over  the  golden  sands. 

I  listen  to  a  bird  singing  in  the  ilex  trees,  and  farther 
away,  so  far  it  seems  but  an  echo,  I  hear  the  answer  that  tells 
the  mate  the  little  mother  bird  is  waiting  for  him.  And  still 
farther  away  across  leagues  of  water  and  plains  I  hear,  in 
imagination,  your  voice  and  long  for  your  dear  companion- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  61 

ship  and  my  heart  aches  for  you  while  my  thoughts  turn  your 
way  and  toward  some  dear,  remembered  spot  we  two  have 
seen  together. 

I  think  of  the  fragrant  spring-time  and  breathe  again  the 
air  laden  with  odors  from  azaleas,  madrona  and  wild  grape 
vine.  I  see  the  great  red  splashes  of  the  passion  flower  amid 
the  green  trailing  vines  rioting  over  hedges  and  trees.  There 
is  a  world  of  sweetness  and  brightness  about  you.  My  heart 
longs  for  you,  and  a  sob  is  only  half-smothered  as  I  look 
through  a  blurred  vision  at  the  sun,  a  great  golden  globe,  as 
he  dips  into  the  green  forests  of  the  Borghese  Gardens  and 
is  hidden  from  me,  but  is  journeying  toward  you  on  the  rim  of 
the  Western  world. 

But  even  as  the  last  yellow  beam  dies  away  and  faster  than 
light  my  thoughts  fly.  And  through  the  force  of  their  inten 
sity  and  my  will-power  I  shall  make  you  know  tonight  that  I 
am  thinking  of  you,  that  my  love  is  with  you, — as  in  the  dear 
old  days  when  we  knew  only  the  delight  and  innocent  joys  of 
childhood.  And  while  I  am  happy  in  my  life  here  in  wander 
ing  about  among  soul-satisfying  things,  it  is  only  natural  that 
I  should  long  for  you  now  and  then. 

I  shall  write  you  again,  but  promise  to  say  less  of  self  and 
more  of  what  I  see;  only  now  and  then  do  I  succumb  to  the 
pangs  of  nostalgia  and  allow  my  pen  the  freedom  my  tongue 
cannot  have. 


VIII 

"In  truth  and  treason,  in  good  and  guilt, 

In  wild  ruins  and  altars  low, 
In  battered  walls  and  blood  misspilt, 

Glorious,  gory  Mexico." 

FROM  THE  LAND  OF  MANANAS  TO  THE  LAND  OF  TODAYS 

One  of  our  most  interesting  and  instructive  jaunts,  friend 
Jack,  was  a  detour  westward  from  Irapuato  toward  San  Bias, 
on  the  Pacific  Ocean,  to  Guadalajara,  conceded  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  city  in  Mexico.  This,  the  second  city  in  the  Republic, 
is  charming  with  its  plazas,  Government  buildings  and  the 
Cathedral  whose  great  towers  dominate  the  landscape.  The 
city  is  more  picturesque  from  a  distance  than  it  appears  when 
one  is  in  it.  This  jewel  of  Mexico  has  much  that  is  pleasing 
and  much  that  makes  one  shiver. 

I  remember  some  pleasant  evenings  we  spent  in  the  main 
plaza,  which  is  surrounded  by  splendid  buildings  and  filled 
with  trees  and  flowers.  The  air  was  fragrant  with  odors  of 
orange  blossoms,  roses  and  violets.  I  breathed  the  perfume 
and  listened  to  the  entrancing  music  that  came  from  the 
band-stands,  heard  the  soft  musical  language,  watched  the 
strange  customs  and  exceecjjngly  odd  way  the  natives  have,— 
the  men  walking  one  way  around  the  park,  the  women  in 
another  direction.  There  is  no  mingling  of  the  sexes  in 
Mexico  as  in  our  country,  but  there  are  many  sly  glances  as 
they  pass  and  repass  under  the  blaze  of  the  electric  lights. 

I  recall  the  grand  Cathedral  and  the  fine  view  from  the 
towers  of  the  city  and  surrounding  country. 

There  were  roof-gardens  looking  less  poetical  than  the 
term  sounds.  For  the  flat  roofs  are  used  more  often  than 
otherwise  for  raising  chickens  as  well  as  flowers.  The  hens 
are  usually  tied  by  one  leg  and  they  may  talk  and  scold  the 
little  ones  and  tell  them  to  go  and  scratch  for  a  living,  but 
it  is  no  use;  instinct  is  all  right;  but  the  juicy  worm  is  not  in 
evidence  on  the  roofs  in  Mexico. 

62 


FROM   THE   WORLD  63 

A  painting,  "The  Assumption,"  by  Murillo,  for  which 
thousands  of  dollars  have  been  refused,  is  an  attraction  in  the 
richly  decorated  interior  of  the  Cathedral. 

And  in  connection  with  this  church,  a  friend  told  us  later, 
that  while  there  he  saw  some  travelers  from  our  own  country 
dancing  on  the  altar  steps  in  a  side  chapel.  What  a  howl 
would  go  up  from  these  shameless,  wrould-be  funny  people 
were  foreigners  to  so  desecrate  our  churches! 

We  visited  one  of  the  hospitals  which  is  so  large  that  it 
contains  twenty-three  patios  or  courts  where  grow  fragrant 
flowers,  and  the  refreshing  sound  comes  to  the  patients  from 
the  fountains.  Everything  possible  seems  to  be  done  for  the 
sick  and  unfortunate  in  the  way  of  open  courts,  fresh  air, 
competent  physicians  and  nurses.  Some  things  struck  me  as 
rather  incongruous,  however.  In  passing  through  a  corridor 
I  saw  a  room  piled  high  with  ready-made  coffins  of  all  sizes, 
and  in  another  room  was  a  poor,  unfortunate  girl  on  a  cot 
with  a  new-born  baby  beside  her,  and  on  a  table  near  by 
were  two  grinning  skulls ! 

Yet,  withal,  the  inmates  are  far  better  off  than  are  their 
poor  fellow-beings  who  live  across  the  river  and  in  the  suburb, 
San  Juan  de  Dios.  There  I  saw  poverty  and  all  its  ghastli- 
ness  as  I  have  never  seen  it  elsewhere. 

In  Italy,  Egypt  or  the  Orient,  there  seems  to  be  something 
in  temperament  or  climatic  conditions  to  relieve  the  dreari 
ness  of  poverty.  Here  the  poor  are  huddled  together  in 
narrow,  filthy  streets,  living  in  low  square  houses  which  have 
no  windows. 

The  women  rarely  have  shoes  or  sandals.  A  short  skirt, 
some  sort  of  waist,  and  the  inevitable  reboso  draped  about  the 
head  and  shoulders  constitute  the  usual  dress.  While  more 
often  than  otherwise  there  is  a  baby  slung  at  the  back,  securely 
bound  in  the  folds  of  the  reboso,  leaving  the  mother's  hands 
free  for  work  or  carrying  other  heavy  burdens. 

The  dress  or  undress  of  the  male  element  is  far  more 
picturesque,  consisting  as  a  rule  of  a  pair  of  drawers  of  thin 
white  cotton  and  a  shirt — both  usually  looking  as  if  they  had 
been  left  over  from  a  rummage  sale — a  scrape  and  sombrero 
and  a  piece  of  leather  for  the  sole  of  the  feet  with  a  strap  or 
two  across  the  upper  part  of  the  foot,  passes  for  shoes  or 


64  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

sandals.  The  scrape  keeps  the  man  warm  during  the  day, 
and  does  for  covering  for  both  man  and  woman  during  the 
night. 

It  takes  but  little  to  start  a  couple  in  life  when  they  agree 
to  share  the  same  scrape.  These  peons  are  so  poor  that  few 
of  them  save  money  enough  for  the  marriage  ceremonies,  so 
they  dispense  with  the  usual  formula  that  is  necessary  in 
higher  circles,  and  purchase  an  alba  or  water-jar,  a  jug  and 
piece  or  two  of  pottery,  a  pot  for  beans  (frijoles),  a  flat  dish 


WOMAN    GRINDING    CORN. 


of  pottery  or  metal  for  the  tortillas,  a  patate  or  square  mat 
made  of  rushes  which  is  their  only  bed,  and  which  is  placed 
on  the  earthen  floor.  These  are  about  all  that  are  needed  for 
house-keeping  purposes.  The  frijoles  and  chili  con  carne,  if 
they  have  meat,  are  scooped  up  on  the  tortillas  which  answer 
for  plates  and  spoons. 

A  good  deal  of  time  and  energy  is  saved,  aside  from  an 
economical  view  in  thus  eating  plates  and  spoons  with  each 
meal.  It  is  just  as  well,  for  the  women  spend  most  of  their 
time  preparing  the  corn,  grinding  and  patting  it  into  cakes, 
and  baking  it  over  the  tiny  charcoal  fires.  If  corn  is  king 


FROM   THE   WORLD  65 

in  Mexico  the  woman  who  shells,  grinds  and  prepares  it  for 
the  eating  ought  to  be  pretty  close  to  the  throne. 

There  is  not  much  spare  time  for  the  woman  in  this  land  of 
mythical  tomorrows.  Besides  cooking  she  must  carry  the 
water  from  the  public  fountains  and  wash  her  rags  in  any 
pool  convenient  for  washing.  Cities  have  public  places  for 
washing — lavenderias — which  are  creditable,  but  they  are 
not  for  the  poor.  I  have  seen  mere  girls  carrying  heavy  jars 
filled  with  water  from  the  fountains  which  a  man  would  take 
and  throw  upon  the  streets, — a  primitive  way  of  sprinkling, 
though  rather  easy  for  the  man. 

Other  girls  I  saw  who  were  a  sort  of  traveling  department 
store,  carrying  some  two  dozen  or  more  sombreros  piled  high 
upon  their  heads,  with  as  many  baskets  and  odds  and  ends  of 
things  slung  about  their  shoulders,  walking  the  streets  earning 
a  few  centavos.  Yet  I  have  heard  it  averred  that  these  are  the 
happiest  people  on  earth.  It  may  be  so.  One  cannot  judge 
from  a  flying  visit,  yet  save  in  two  or  three  instances  I  saw 
no  children  playing,  as  we  are  accustomed  to  see. 

If  outward  demonstration  counts,  apathy  and  stoicism, 
coupled  with  endurance  may  mean  happiness  in  the  tropics, 
but  I  prefer  the  songs  bubbling  from  the  lips  of  the  laughter- 
loving  beggars  of  Italy,  to  the  worshippers  of  the  bull  ring 
and  cock-fighting  Mexicans.  Still  one  does  not  need  to  brood 
over  these  conditions. 

It  was  far  more  pleasant  to  wander  through  other  parts 
of  the  city  where  the  wealthy  live  and  see  the  beautiful  gar 
dens  and  handsome  streets  and  houses  with  enticing  glimpses 
of  the  patios  or  courts  filled  with  gorgeous  tropical  flowers 
and  vines  and  admire  the  fascinating  women  coquettishly 
peering  out  through  the  iron-barred  windows. 

And  when  over-wearied  with  the  day's  work  it  was  charm 
ing  to  dine  in  the  quaint  hotel  where  palms  and  flowers  lent 
their  charm,  and  later  to  sit  higher  up  in  the  open  court  where 
we  smoked  and  £azed  upward  at  a  frescoing  that  has  never 
been  equaled.  The  dark  blue  skies  and  myriads  of  glittering 
stars  were  the  only  roof  and  seemed  so  low  that  one  could 
almost  touch  them.  Rest  was  sweet  indeed,  with  heaven 
seemingly  so  near. 


IX 

"Show  me  the  woman  who  can  live  without  love,  and  I  will  show  you 
one  who  lacks  the  element  that  sanctifies  her  sex  and  makes  her  the 
favored  of  God,  in  spite  of  her  original  sin.'" 

ALICE  HEATON  AND  HER  FRIEND 

It  was  several  days  before  I  saw  my  adopted  mother  again. 
She  was  ill,  and  I  had  my  meals  alone.  Mr.  Browning  had 
his  meals  served  in  a  room  adjoining  hers  in  order  to  be  near 
her.  I  did  not  ask  to  see  her  as  she  had  not  sent  for  me  and 
I  was  free  to  do  as  I  wished.  Hence  there  was  but  little  time 
spent  in-doors  save  when  I  was  sleeping.  I  would  take  my 
luncheon  and  spend  the  entire  day  either  in  riding  or  with  a 
book  wandering  among  the  hills. 

Every  day,  after  that  first  day  when  Mrs.  Browning  was 
taken  ill,  I  met  my  one  friend.  1  saw  him  somewhere  and 
sometime  during  the  day.  At  first  it  was  by  accident,  he 
said, — as  he  was  spending  a  few  days  in  the  neighborhood. 
Then  he  would  ask  me  if  I  was  to  ride  or  walk  the  next  day. 
If  I  was  going  to  ride  he  would  show  me  some  beautiful 
trails.  He  always  had  an  excuse  and  in  my  innocence  I  thought 
he  was  more  than  kind  to  take  so  much  trouble  and  give  his 
time  to  a  young  girl  like  myself. 

He  told  me  not  to  think  for  a  moment  that  it  was  anything 
but  selfishness  on  his  part,  as  he  was  alone  and  enjoyed  show 
ing  me  the  places  that  were  old  to  him;  but  looking  at  them 
through  my  eyes  he  seemed  to  be  finding  something  new  all 
the  time. 

And  then,  as  if  to  satisfy  my  scruples,  he  said  he  had 
spoken  to  Mr.  Browning  and  he  preferred  that  I  should  be 
accompanied  by  him  rather  than  going  about  alone. 

"It  is  not  safe  for  you.  There  are  all  sorts  of  men  camping 
and  fishing  in  this  region.  So  you  must  not  go  far  away 
unless  it  is  on  horseback,  and  then  it  is  best  to  keep  on  the 
broad  road." 

I  said  I  had  never  taken  any  of  the  by-paths  until  he  came. 

66 


FROM   THE   WORLD  67 

"That  is  right,  Alice,  keep  on  the  highways  unless  I  am 
along  to  protect  you." 

Thinking  I  had  Mr.  Browning's  permission  and  resenting 
any  interference  on  behalf  of  Miss  Hill,  who  was  a  deceitful, 
prying  sort  of  person,  1  never  mentioned  where  I  went  or  that 
I  saw  anyone  in  my  daily  outing. 

Soon  I  grew  to  be  sorry  when  the  evening  came  and  I  had 
to  go  home.  I  was  always  glad  when  the  first  peep  of  day 
came.  I  arose  early,  was  impatient  for  breakfast  and  the 
hour  to  arrive  when  I  might  start  out  in  the  early  morning  to 
meet  my  new-found  friend. 

Mr.  Bertram — as  he  had  told  me  to  call  him,  from  the 
first  meeting — had  been  kinder  to  me  than  anyone  else  had 
ever  been.  He  had  asked  me  and  I  told  him  all  I  knew  about 
my  life,  which  was  not  much.  1  only  remembered  my  mother 
and  the  school,  and  again  I  would  express  my  determination 
to  go  away,  that  I  was  only  staying  there  because  I  had 
promised  him. 

"When  you  go  away  I  will  go  too,"  I  said.  "I  will  not 
remain  here  where  I  am  only  tolerated.  I  have  been  unhappy 
all  my  life  since  I  have  been  left  alone.  How  lonely  and 
wretched  I  never  knew  until  I  met  you."  And  I  looked  up 
into  his  eyes  with  the  ready  tears  in  mine. 

"Dear  child,  is  it  true?  Has  your  poor  little  heart  been 
starving  for  love  and  affection  all  your  life?" 

"I  have  never  loved  anyone  since  I  lost  my  mother  until— 
until—  '  I  paused,  ashamed  of  myself,  I  had  nearly  said, 
"until  I  knew  you." 

But  a  sudden  shyness  and  confusion  bewildered  me,  and  I 
sprang  up  from  the  seat  where  we  had  been  resting  and 
running  away  began  gathering  some  flowers.  Looking  back 
after  a  time  I  saw  him  bent  over  with  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 
I  thought  I  heard  him  groan,  and  ran  back. 

"Are  you  ill?"  I  asked,  frightened  by  the  drawn  look  in 
his  face. 

"For  a  moment.  Run  away  and  get  me  some  of  those 
flowers,  please.  I  will  be  all  right  soon." 

I  was  obedient  and  went  away,  staying  a  long  time,  while 
he  lay  prone  on  the  ground,  not  moving  until  at  last  he  sprang 
up  and  calling  to  me,  said : 


68  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Come,  Alice,  it  is  time  to  return.  I  am  going  back  to  the 
city  tonight.  I  hated  to  tell  you  for  you  seemed  happy  in 
our  jaunts  about  the  country." 

"Going  away?"  My  flowers  fell;  my  hands  went  to  my 
heart  which  seemed  to  pain  me.  Something  in  my  throat 
seemed  to  sting  and  choke  me.  I  had  not  thought  it  pos 
sible  that  he  would  go  away  so  suddenly.  I  must  have  turned 
pale,  for  he  sprang  to  my  side,  put  his  arms  about  me  and 
gently  seated  me  on  the  little  mound  of  moss  where  I  had 
been  resting  so  happily  before. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  he  said,  smoothing  my  hair.  "I 
will  come  again  and  soon." 

"Oh!  I  can't  bear  it.  I  won't  be  left  alone.  I  have  told 
you  how  wretched  1  was  before  I  knew  you.  I  don't  know 
how  to  live, — how  to  get  through  the  days  without  you.  I 
cannot  stay  here  with  those  two  old  people  whom  I  do  not 
love  and  who  do  not  love, — scarcely  tolerate  me." 

"Alice,  you  are  mistaken.  There  is  some  mystery  about 
your  birth.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  but  I  am  sure  your 
adopted  parents  do  not  hate  you  as  you  seem  to  think  they 
do.  Your  father — he  is  in  law,  you  know — said  in  answer  to 
a  question  of  mine  regarding  you,  that  they  were  surprised 
to  find  you  a  young  lady.  They  had  thought  of  you  only  as 
a  child  until  you  came,  and  that  you  looked  so  like  your 
mother  they  could  scarcely  endure  your  presence." 

"But  why?  why?"  I  broke  in,  "if  I  look  like  her  and  if 
they  loved  her  why  do  they  not  show  me  a  little  of  the  love 
they  once  must  have  felt  for  her?" 

"There  was  something  wrong.  I  do  not  know  who  your 
mother  or  father  was,  but  they  never  forgave  her  or  allowed 
her  name  spoken.  She  had  a  fortune  of  her  own,  inherited 
from  a  relative,  and  by  the  way,  this  has  been  kept  for  you. 
So  much  I  know,  and  I  think  in  time  you  might  win  them. 
How  could  they  resist  you  if  you  cared  to  gain  their  love?" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  said  eagerly.  Then  the  thought 
of  my  dear  dead  one,  hardened  my  heart. 

"No,  I  do  not  want  their  love  if  they  could  not  forgive 
her,  no  matter  what  her  offense  was,  neither  will  I  forgive 
them.  They  are  hard  and  cruel.  They  knew  where  she  was 


FROM   THE   WORLD  69 

buried, — out  there  on  the  sunny-sloping  hill  near  the  old 
Mission,  at  Santa  Barbara.  I  did  not  know  myself  for  a  long 
time  where  we  lived.  I  was  so  small  when  taken  away  from 
there,  but  I  know  now.  One  of  the  sisters  told  me  that  much, 
and  some  day  soon  I  am  going  back  there  to  find  her  grave. 
I  remember  even  now  there  were  some  little  wooden  boards 
with  her  name.  I  could  spell  it  then,  when  I  put  the  flowers 
on  her  grave.  Won't  you  help  me  to  get  away?  I  want  to 
go.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  how  it  grieves  me,  the  thought  of 
that  lonely  grave." 

"Perhaps  your  adopted  parents  have  seen  that  it  is  not 
uncared  for,"  he  replied. 

"Do  you  think  you  would  dare  find  out  from  Mr. 
Browning  if  he  has  been  kind  or  tender  to  her  memory  and 
placed  a  stone  over  her,  telling  the  world  that  she  was  not 
forgotten.  I  think  I  could  love  him  for  that.  Will  you,  dear 
Mr.  Bertram?" 

"Bertram,"  he  repeated,  as  if  surprised.  "Ah,  yes,  and 
by  the  way,  if  you  should  have  any  conversation  with  your 
adopted  parents  or  anyone  in  the  household  you  need  not 
mention  that  we  have  been  meeting." 

"But  you  said  you  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Browning." 

"Certainly,  but  as  you  know  he  is  peculiar,  and  as  he  will 
not  go  anywhere  with  you  himself,  he  might  not  want  you  to 
know  that  he  had  given  his  consent  for  another  man  to 
accompany  you.  Besides,  they  do  not  know  we  have  met 
every  day,  do  they?" 

"No  one  knows  from  me  that  I  have  met  or  known  you. 
Why  should  I  tell  the  servants?  I  do  not  gossip  and  I  am 
not  responsible  to  them  or  anyone  for  that  matter.  I  do 
whatever  -I  like  and  am  pretty  well  satisfied  if  I  can  keep  away 
from  them  all." 

"I  knew  it !  I  was  sure,  young  as  you  are,  that  you  are  not 
the  girl  to  tell  all  you  know." 

"I  have  never  told  anything  to  anyone  concerning  myself. 
Why  should  1  ?  And  besides  there  has  been  so  little— 

"There  will  be  more  and  more  coming  into  your  life  all  the 
time  now.  Your  eyes  and  your  face  will  make  history  for 
you." 


70  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  said,  the  blood  rushing  to  my  face 
as  his  eyes  held  mine  with  such  a  strange  look  that  I  could 
not  take  mine  from  his  until  he  looked  away. 

"Never  mind  just  now,  you  will  know  before  long.  How 
old  are  you,  Alice?" 

"I  am  only  seventeen,"  I  replied. 

"So  young  and  so  innocent  of  the  ways  of  the  world,"  I 
heard  him  say,  softly,  as  if  thinking  of  something. 

"Now,  my  little  friend,  I  must  see  you  safely  home,  or  a 
part  of  the  way,  and  then  good-bye.  Would  you  kiss  me 
just  once  before  I  leave  you?" 

"But  I  have  never  in  all  my  life  kissed  a  man,  or  scarcely 
anyone  since  I  was  child,"  longing  with  my  whole  soul  to 
throw  my  arms  around  his  neck,  as  1  remembered  I  had  done 
when  I  kissed  my  mother.  Yet  not  daring, — something  held 
me  back, — seemed  pulling  me  away  from  him,  while  his  eves 
were  drawing  me  to  him  all  the  while. 

"Must  I,"  and  my  voice  sounded  strange  to  me,  "kiss 
you?" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  opened  his  arms  and  I  flung  myself 
on  his  breast  with  my  arms  around  his  neck,  and  found  his 
warm  trembling  lips  pressed  to  mine.  Again  and  again  he 
kissed  my  lips,  my  cheeks  and  my  hair,  while  I  clung  to  him. 
A  strange  ecstasy  filled  my  whole  being.  My  heart  was 
beating  so  that  I  was  almost  breathless.  He  placed  his  hand 
on  my  breast. 

"Poor  little  fluttering  heart,  do  not  be  frightened,"  he  said, 
and  placed  me  down  on  the  seat,  sinking  on  his  knees  as  he 
released  me. 

He  smiled  and  smoothed  my  hair,  stroking  it  tenderly 

"And  you  have  never  kissed  a  man  before?"  he  said. 

"I  have  never  known  or  been  alone  with  a  man  until  I  met 
you,"  I  answered. 

"Then  you  must  promise  me  here  and  now,  by  the  memory 
of  this  first  kiss  that  you  will  not  allow  any  other  man  to  kiss 
you.  Will  you,  dear  Alice?"  And  he  crushed  me  to  his 
breast  with  such  force  that  I  moaned  with  pain.  He  arose, 
and  holding  me  from  him,  said : 

"Do  you  promise?  Will  you  swear  that  you  will  kiss  no 
one  but  me?" 


FROM   THE   WORLD  71 

"Never,  in  all  my  life?"  I  asked. 

"Not  without  my  permission.     The  world  would  think  it 
wrong,  little  girl.    You  must  remember  and  do  as  I  tell  you." 
"If  it  is  wrong  why  did  you  ask  me?    I  have  no  one  to  tell 
me  what  is  right  or  wrong.     I  never  heard  the  subject  dis 
cussed  at  school." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  girls  never  talked  about 
such  things?"  he  asked  in  astonishment. 

"I  was  never  confidential  with  any  of  the  girls, — they  did 
not  seem  to  care  particularly  for  me.  I  spent  most  of  my 
time  with  my  books  and  my  music,  and  the  Mother  Superior 
was  my  only  friend  and  she  never  talked  about  men." 

"I  can  well  believe  it,  my  innocent  little  dove."  And  then 
he  said,  "I  must  go  at  once  before  it  is  too  late, — come 
quickly,"  and  hurrying  me  away  we  went  on  rapidly. 

I  was  grieved  and  astonished.  "Too  late!'  I  wondered 
what  he  meant  and  yet  could  not  summon  courage  to  ask. 
Before  we  reached  the  broad  road  which  led  up  to  the  house 
he  turned. 

"You  haven't  given  me  your  promise,"  he  said.  "Promise 
me  now  that  you  will  never  allow  any  man  to  hold  you  in 
his  arms  or  kiss  you  until  I  give  you  permission." 

"Does  that  mean  I  am  never  to  kiss  you  again?     Have  I 
done  wrong?"  I  asked,  while  the  tears  sprang  into  my  eyes. 
"No,  dear  child,  that  does  not  apply  to  you  and  me." 
"Then  1  promise  you  with  my  whole  heart,  and  I  shall 
keep  it.     I  have  never  told  a  lie  in  all  my  life." 

I  laughed  now,  it  seemed  so  absurd,  the  idea  of  me  kissing 
a  man,  when  I  only  knew  Mr.  Browning  and  the  men  ser 
vants. 

"That  is  better,"  he  said  when  I  laughed.  'Now  try  to  be 
cheerful.  I  shall  not  be  away  long,  only  I  may  not  be  able 
to  stay  very  long  at  a  time.  But  I  will  surely  come  soon. 
Good-bye." 

I  looked  up  pleadingly  into  his  face.  "Why  must  you  go? 
I  think  I  shall  die  if  left  here  all  alone." 

"One  does  not  die  so  easily.  If  we  both  could  it  would  be 
better.  O  child,  child,  you  drive  me  mad.  God  forgive  me 
for  1  know  too  well  what  I  do." 


72  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Once  more  he  took  me  in  his  arms,  kissing  me  again  and 
again.  I  felt  a  hot  tear  on  my  face,  then  he  flung  me  from 
him  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment,  leaving  me  happier 
than  I  had  ever  been  in  my  life. 

I  was  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  time.  My  whole  being  thrilled 
with  happiness.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  realized  what 
a  gift  life  was, — to  live  and  to  love!  Oh,  I  knew  the  mean 
ing, — the  riddle  of  life  now.  For  years  I  had  hungered  for 
affection  and  for  sympathy.  Now  I  knew  that  my  whole 
heart  and  my  very  being  was  his.  That  with  the  first  kiss, 
the  woman  was  born  and  childhood  had  fled. 

I  not  only  loved  him  but  it  seemed  as  though  I  was  in  love 
with  the  whole  world.  I  even  felt  pity,  in  a  strange  new 
feeling  for  the  two  old  people  up  there  in  the  lonely  house, 
and  I  thought  if  they  loved  my  mother  once  maybe  they 
would  turn  their  hearts  toward  me  when  they  knew.  1 
recalled  Mrs.  Browning's  words,  "If  she  can  only  marry  some 
good  man."  She  had  wanted  me  to  marry  before  I  knew  the 
"ways  of  the  world." 

I  thought  I  was  very  learned  in  the  ways  of  the  world 
already.  I  had  been  allowed  free  access  to  the  library  and 
chose  such  books  as  I  desired,  without  question  or  comment. 
I  had  devoured  numberless  books  of  romance  which  had 
opened  a  new  world  to  me,  and  fired  my  imagination  and 
had  given  me  the  idea  that  a  man  never  kissed  a  girl  unless 
he  loved  and  expected  to  marry  her.  Oh,  it  would  all  be 
right  very  soon  now,  and  then  they  would  be  kind  to  me.  I 
might  even  learn  to  say  "father"  and  "mother"  in  time. 

As  I  thought  of  my  new  life  it  seemed  as  though  my  heart 
was  almost  bursting  with  the  joy  and  pain  of  my  love,  and 
somehow  everything  looked  different.  The  waters  of  the 
bay  dimpled  and  sparkled  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  afternoon 
sun. 

"Ah,  I  know  what  the  warm  sunshine  is  to  the  earth  now," 
I  said,  "it  warms  it  like  his  kisses  warmed  and  thrilled  me 
with  a  new  life.  It  is  summer  now  in  my  heart,  as  it  is 
summer  on  the  land  and  the  sea.  Oh,  1  pray  I  shall  not  be 
wicked  or  hate  anyone,  now  that  I  love  and  am  loved." 

I  knew  now  what  a  desolate  life  I  had  lived.  I  had  been 
like  a  poor  creeping  vine  trying  to  grow  up  against  a  marble 


FROM   THE   WORLD  73 

wall,  seeking  to  find  some  crevice,  some  opening  whereby  I 
might  find  warmth  and  the  light,  only  to  fall  back  hopeless 
and  chilled,  until  now.  Kind  heaven !  Where  were  thy 
angels  that  there  was  not  one  to  whisper  in  my  ear  the  folly 
of  letting  my  heart  spill  out  its  first,  best,  and  only  love  where 
it  was  worse  thanMdle,  and  the  divinity  upon  whom  I  lavished 
my  heart's  best  treasure  was,  I  had  yet  to  learn  in  all  its  bitter 
ness,  only  common  clay. 

Even  in  the  first  instant,  when  I  knew  I  loved  my  darling, 
I  felt  that  it  would  be  the  love  of  my  life, — that  all  the  love 
I  had  to  give  now  or  evermore  was  in  his  keeping,  and  I 
thought  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven  could  change  or  make 
me  love  him  less. 

It  was  oil  and  balm  for  my  starved  heart.  It  soothed  the 
turbulence  of  my  nature.  I  felt  and  knew  it  to  be  true.  It 
calmed  the  sea  of  my  existence, — it  was  as  if  an  Aphrodite 
had  broken  the  undreamed-of  depths  and  sent  the  ripples 
widening  with  low  sweet  music  that  widened  and  spread  on 
and  on  to  infinity.  I  did  not  pause  to  think  that  there  could 
ever  be  anything  but  the  ineffable  happiness  of  loving  and 
being  loved. 

That  he  loved  me  I  never  doubted  any  more  than  the 
existence  of  God.  Why,  he  had  kissed  me  and  held  me  in  his 
arms  !  Was  not  that  enough  ? 

In  that  kiss  all  the  bitterness  seemed  to  have  left  me.  I 
thought  of  Moses  on  the  lonely  mount  of  Nebo.  I  too,  saw 
the  fair  domain  of  love  spread  out  before  me, — the  beautiful 
land  of  love  and  happiness, — and  even  now  I  stood  upon 
the  border.  1  was  really  within  the  gates  and  claimed  my 
inheritance. 

I  remembered  the  story  of  Moses  and  his  wanderings;  of 
the  long  years  of  toil  and  weary  marches;  the  trouble  and 
care,  and  that  after  all  he  was  not  permitted  to  enter  the  land 
of  Canaan.  And  I  was  only  seventeen  years  old.  Yet  I  had 
thought  my  years  were  long  and  that  they  had  been  empty 
and  desolate  because  no  one  had  ever  shown  much  interest 
or  cared  for  me  at  all. 

Now  I  had  entered  into  the  inheritance  of  love  which  I  felt 
was  my  right,  and  I  began  to  plan  for  my  new  life  therein. 
I  wondered  if  he  had  a  home,  or  if  we  could  live  somewhere 


74  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

up  here  on  the  sloping  hills,  for  I  felt  I  could  never  be  happy 
in  the  city. 

So  ran  my  thoughts,  weaving  beautiful  web  and  woof  for 
the  future.  1  did  not  know  that  I  was  not  eating  or  that  Miss 
Hill  sat  like  a  death's  head  at  the  feast,  until  glancing  up  I 
found  her  piercing  eyes  fixed  upon  me. 

"You  do  not  eat,  and  seem  excited.  Has  anything  unusual 
happened?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  almost  inclined,  in  my  new  found  joy, 
to  take  her  into  my  confidence  and  tell  her  how  happy  I  was, 
but  remembering  my  promise  to  say  nothing,  I  added:  "Yes, 
I  had  a  dream  today  that  made  me  very  happy." 

"And  might  I  ask  what  you  dreamed?" 

"1  dreamed  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  since  my  mother 
died  some  one  kissed  me  and  smoothed  my  hair  as  if  they 
cared." 

"And  it  was  a  dream,  you  say?"  she  said.  I  saw  suspicion 
in  her  steel-gray  eyes. 

"Only  a  dream — what  else  could  it  be?"  I  answered. 
"Nothing  of  the  sort  could  happen  in  this  house  or  vicinity. 
A  kiss  would  be  frapped  here.  It  would  be  like  putting 
your  lips  to  a  bit  of  frosty  iron  I  heard  an  Eastern  girl  speak 
of  once." 

"You  are  inclined  to  be  facetious,"  she  said,  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  no,  1  think  not;  but  tell  me,  have  you  ever  kissed 
any  one  in  this  house  or  witnessed  an  effort?" 

"Kiss  anybody!"  She  seemed  horrified.  "One  would  think 
you  had  been  brought  up  on  kisses,  you  talk  so  glibly  of 
them." 

"One's  imagination  cannot  be  curbed — there  might  be 
bliss." 

"Yes,"  she  retorted,  "and  microbes,  too." 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall  fear  microbes  if  I  ever  have  an  op 
portunity  to  contract  them;  I  am  young,  you  know,  and  can 
afford  to  wait  a  while.  Now,  if  I  were  past  forty"-  -  and  I 
looked  at  the  crow's  feet  around  her  eyes  and  felt  there  was 
not  much  chance  of  contagion  for  her — "one  contracts  diseases 
more  easily  when  one  is  young." 

I  saw  her  sallow  face  redden  a  little.  I  was  having  my 
revenge  and  might  talk  about  the  danger  and  told  her  there 


FROM   THE   WORLD  75 

would  not  be  the  slightest  danger  of  her  contracting  microbes 
by  kissing. 

"You  have  already  contracted  a  disease  that  you  will 
scarcely  get  rid  of  without  severe  methods,"  she  said. 

"What  dreadful  malady  might  it  be?"  I  answered,  teas- 
ingly. 

"Impertinence,"  she  said,  as  she  arose  and  left  the  table. 
Her  vanity  was  wounded,  I  knew.  But  she  had  never  seemed 
to  like  me  and  resented  my  coming,  I  thought,  so  I  had  not 
tried  to  conciliate  her. 

Suddenly  it  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I  had  not  been 
nice  and  my  new  resolves,  my  love,  that  had  made  me  feel 
kindly  toward  everyone  opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  I  was 
not  respectful.  I  jumped  from  my  chair,  ran  to  her,  grasped 
her  hand  and  said: 

"Forgive  me,  I  was  wrong  and  not  respectful." 

She  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment.  It  was  the  first  evi 
dence  of  emotion  she  had  seen  in  me. 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  impertinent  or  sarcastic,  but  no  one 
in  this  household  has  by  word  or  action  shown  me  that  I  was 
welcome.  You  all  seem  to  copy  the  manners  of  your 
employers.  I  seem  to  be  here  on  sufferance  by  them  and  toler 
ated  by  the  others,  you,  especially.  Why  are  you  not  kinder? 
What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  treated  so?  When  I 
come  in  the  house  from  outdoors  it  is  like  coming  into  a  cel 
lar.  The  atmosphere  is  cold.  The  human  registers  here  do 
not  generate  warmth." 

"Possibly  we  could  not  compete  with  the  one  that  has 
aroused  you  to  unusual  action.  You  are  changed  since — 
since  your  dream  of  today,"  she  sneered. 

I  was  paralyzed  for  a  brief  moment.  I  saw  it  was  to  be 
war  between  us,  and  I  threw  back  my  head  and  laughed.  Not 
for  worlds  would  I  permit  her  to  think  the  shaft  had  struck 
home. 

"Then,  with  your  kind  permission,  I  will  go  on  with  my 
dreams,"  and  I  knew  my  eyes  flashed  defiance. 

"I  could  not  expect  anything  else — what  is  bred  in  the 
bone — and  you — well,  I  think  it  will  not  be  very  long  before 
you  are  in  a  different  mood.  You  may  even  yet  be  willing 
to  curry  favor  from  me;  then  my  time  will  come." 


76  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Never,"  I  said,  and  in  my  soul  I  knew  that  whatever  my 
fate  I  would  die  rather  than  appeal  to  her,  cold  and  heart 
less  as  she  appeared. 

"Why  should  I  expect  love,  sympathy  or  mercy,  if  such 
were  ever  needed  from  you?  There  is  no  milk  of  human 
kindness  within  your  body.  If  punctured,  your  veins  would 
ooze  ice-water,  I  am  sure." 

Just  then  I  saw  Mrs.  Browning  standing  in  the  doorway. 
She  looked  feeble  and  so  much  older  than  when  I  saw  her 
last.  1  was  certain  she  had  heard  every  word  of  our  con 
versation  and  I  was  not  sorry,  for  I  had  borne  covert  sneers 
until  I  was  on  the  verge  of  active  rebellion  against  the  entire 
household. 

"You  can  go,  Jane,"  she  said  to  my  ruffled  enemy, — I 
knew  she  was  not  my  friend. 

"Sit  down,  Alice,"  she  said,  "I  have  recovered  sufficiently 
to  have  a  little  conversation  with  you.  I  know  you  are  not 
happy  in  this  house  and  we  have  been  planning  to  send  you 
away  with  Jane  for  a  year's  travel." 

"With  Jane!  I  will  not  go  with  her,"  I  said,  with 
vehemence. 

"Why  not?     I  pray.     She  is  faithful  and  trustworthy." 

"Yes,  faithful  to  you  and  detests  me.  I  will  not  go  with 
her.  But  tell  me  first  what  did  she  mean  by  saying — 'bred 
in  the  bone' — why  are  you  all  keeping  something  from  me? 
Do  you  think  I  am  so  stupid  that  1  do  not  realize  that  there 
is  some  mystery?  I  am  not  a  child  any  longer  and  you  have 
no  right  to  treat  me  as  such." 

"I  have  the  right  to  do  as  I  choose  and  can  compel  you  to 
obey  me  for  another  year  at  least,"  she  said,  her  eyes  gleam 
ing  like  coals,  her  brows  knit  together.  "Jane  has  told  me 
that  you  have  spent  but  little  time  about  the  house  since 
I  have  been  ill,  and  it  is  also  said,"  she  spoke  in 
a  voice  that  trembled  with  emotion,  "that  your  days  have  not 
been  spent  in  solitude." 

Oh,  that  prying  old  Jane,  with  her  cat-like  step  and  steely 
eyes.  I  knew  then  what  she  meant  by  "curry  favor."  Indeed, 
well,  we  would  see. 

"So  you  have  not  been  too  ill  to  set  your  spies  at  work,"  I 
said,  in  cool  even  tones.  The  blood  of  some  old  warring 


FROM   THE   WORLD  77 

ancestor  of  mine  was  aroused.  I  would  not  cringe  or  show  fear 
though  it  be  war  to  the  death.  I  was  no  coward.  I  had  done 
no  wrong.  Why,  only  today  I  had  thought  I  could  love  her, 
and  that  she  would  be  pleased  when  I  told  her  I  was  going 
to  fulfill  her  wishes — that  I  was  to  marry  a  "good  man,"  her 
own  words  that  had  come  to  me  with  the  realizing  sense  of 
love  in  that  first  kiss. 

But  now  confession  was  out  of  the  question.  I  would  not 
give  her  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  what  I  knew,  and  yet 
through  it  all  my  heart  was  singing  for  joy;  for  I  had  some 
one  now  to  tell  my  sorrows  to,  some  one  who  would  kiss  and 
console  me.  Their  unkindness  could  not  hurt  me  longer.  So 
my  thoughts  ran  on  until  I  heard  her  speaking  again. 

"I  have  done  what  I  deemed  my  duty.  I  did  not  know 
what  sort  of  a  girl  you  were  or  what  the  convent  had  made  of 
you.  I  hoped  the  influence  there  might  counteract  certain 
tendencies  which  I  feared  were  inherent." 

"And  pray  what  'certain  tendencies'  do  you  refer  to?" 

I  was  curious  to  know — to  learn  something  of  inherited 
characteristics.  I  had  studied  a  little  in  that  direction: 

"Duplicity  and  following  your  own  desires,  regardless  of 
consequences,"  she  answered. 

I  felt  that  in  a  measure  she  was  right,  though  I  had  not 
thought  of  concealment.  She  had  been  ill  since  I  had  been 
meeting  Mr.  Bertram,  and  I  could  not  tell  her  had  I  so  desired. 
Besides  in  all  the  weeks  since  my  arrival  I  had  come 
and  gone  unquestioned,  and  I  knew  Mr.  Browning  had  given 
his  consent.  Then  suddenly  the  thought  came  to  me  that 
Mr.  Bertram  had  said,  "Do  not  mention  our  meeting."  His 
word  weighed  more  with  me  than  anything  else  in  the  world, 
so  I  answered : 

"You  evidently  are  not  satisfied  with  the  convent  training 
and  are  going  to  experiment  in  another  direction." 

"You  are  quick  to  comprehend,  therefore  I  want  you  to 
accept  the  situation  and  that  without  any  useless  opposition. 
You  are  to  make  your  preparations  at  once.  Perhaps  you 
may  understand  why  I  am  anxious  that  you  should  go  as  soon 
as  possible,  though  I  had  not  intended  sending  you  away  to 
travel  for  a  while — but  events  have  forced  me  to  action. 
You  will  go  to  the  city  tomorrow  with  Jane  and  pur- 


7 8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

chase  a  wardrobe,  suitable  for  traveling.  It  will  be  com 
paratively  easy  for  you  to  find  all  you  need.  Jane  will  know 
all  that  is  required  if  you  do  not." 

"So  you  have  settled  it  according  to  your  wishes.  Now, 
listen  to  me.  First  of  all  I  want  you  to  answer  a  question: 
Did  my  mother  leave  any  money  for  me,  and  who  has  fur 
nished  the  money  needful  for  me  all  the  years  since  she  died? 
I  demand  that  you  answer  me  truthfully." 

She  waited  as  if  in  doubt,  but  finally  said:  "Yes,  there  is 
money  of  your  own  awaiting  you  when  you  need  it." 

"If  I  consent  to  go  away  with — with  the  disagreeable  per 
son  you  have  selected,"  I  said  sweetly,  "can  it  be  arranged 
that  I  may  have  the  use  of  my  money  for  anything  I  may 
desire  to  purchase?  1  have  a  good  many  whims  which  you 
have  not  understood." 

"We  prefer  that  you  should  not  use  the  money,  even  if  it 
is  yours,  until  you  are  eighteen;  but,  if  you  insist,  it  is  easily 
managed  and  it  will  be  so  arranged,  if  you  will  be  reasonable 
and  not  give  me  further  cause  for  uneasiness." 

"I  want  it  all  settled  before  I  go  to  the  city.  I  want  to 
begin  by  selecting  some  little  things  with  my  own  money." 

"My  husband  is  going  to  the  city  tomorrow — it  will  be 
arranged  that  you  can  draw  so  much  money  per  month." 

She  named  the  sum  which  was  far  beyond  my  expectations. 
Why,  I  thought,  I  must  be  rich  in  my  own  right.  I  would 
not  be  obliged  to  accept  any  favors  from  them  and  in  my 
heart  I  knew  I  would  not.  She  could  keep  her  secrets.  The 
mystery  of  my  birth  and  my  adoption  she  would  not  reveal 
to  me. 

Well,  I  would  be  reticent  also.  I  had  formulated  plans 
which  she  might  learn  sometime,  but  not  from  me.  When 
once  I  was  put  in  possession  of  what  was  rightfully  mine,  1 
could  laugh  at  her.  I  would  go  and  hide  from  her  and  her 
spying  servants  for  a  year.  Then,  when  I  was  of  age,  I 
would  defy  her  and  would  come  and  go  as  I  pleased. 

But  all  the  while  I  was  laughing  in  my  heart,  for  I  thought 
if  I  were  married  how  surprised  they  would  be,  and  I  pictured 
myself  coming  back  just  once,  sending  my  card  in  with  Mrs. 
Bertram  upon  it,  and  then  I  would  see  her  and  ask  if  she 
thought  I  had  learned  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  if  she  did 


FROM   THE   WORLD  79 

not  think  my  husband  was  quite  capable  of  being  my  guar 
dian,  and  that  I  had  taken  the  law  in  my  own  hands  and 
adopted  a  husband  who  was  exactly  to  my  liking. 

My  thoughts  ran  riot.  1  was  almost  crazed  with  the  sudden 
change  in  my  affairs  and  when  she  dismissed  me  I  retired  to 
my  room.  Early  the  next  morning  I  was  out  of  the  house 
eager  to  be  alone  while  planning  for  the  future. 

I  went  on  and  on  past  familiar  places  and  still  on  up  the 
beautiful  ravine,  climbing  the  sloping  sides  of  Mt.  Tamal- 
pais,  pausing  now  and  then  to  wonder  and  admire.  About 
me  lay  the  deep  silences  of  the  hills,  broken  now  and  then  by 
the  wood-pecker's  hammering  away  in  glee  on  some  old 
decayed  pine  tree,  or  the  shrill  quarrelings  of  the  blue  jays 
as  they  flashed  by  like  streaks  of  the  rich  sky  above  me,  lur 
ing  me,  and  calling  me  to  follow  them  to  their  haunts. 

The  solemn  sweetness  of  the  hills,  the  fragrance  of  the 
pines  brought  forth  by  the  sun's  warm  rays  on  the  feathery 
foliage  was  restful  and  delicious.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  part  of 
the  forces  which  were  about  me.  I  could  feel  the  quickening 
pulses  of  the  forest,  could,  it  seemed  to  me,  hear  the  heart 
throbs  that  sent  the  quick  running  sap  up  and  up  to  the  far 
thest  tip  of  the  tiniest  twig.  The  warmth  and  fragrance  touched 
my  heart  with  its  softening  influences — the  high  and  lofty 
peak  above  me,  the  wide  landscape,  the  ocean  glittering  like 
an  amethyst  beneath  a  violet  sky  and  over  against  the  farther 
side  of  the  bay  lay  the  great  city. 

I  found  myself  speculating  upon  its  vast  length  stretching 
back  even  out  to  the  ocean's  borders.  I  had  been  there  only 
once  and  had  not  cared  for  the  cold  winds  and  fogs  that 
chilled  me,  but  now  I  looked  with  greater  interest.  Some 
where  in  that  wilderness  of  streets  and  houses  was  the  man 
I  loved.  Ah,  I  thought,  I  shall  not  mind  the  foggy  evenings 
or  the  cold  winds  when  I  am  safe  within  the  shelter  of  his 
arms.  Glad,  happy  thoughts  came  to  me — my  life  seemed 
expanding  and  broadening  with  the  vision. 

The  narrow  boundaries  hitherto  known  melted  away.  I 
had  never  before  known  what  freedom  really  meant.  I  felt 
today  for  the  first  time  the  foretaste  of  emancipation.  In 
one  sense  I  was  to  be  mistress  of  myself — and  my  actions.  I 


8o  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

was  taking  long  breaths  of  freedom.  The  freedom  of  the 
hills  was  mine  and  life  was  to  be  henceforth  unfettered. 

I  sensed  the  odors  of  the  woods,  heard  the  clear  call  of 
the  birds,  happy  in  their  leafy  coverts.  I  understood  now 
as  never  before  theirs  were  the  joy  notes  in  nature.  They  are, 
I  thought,  the  vivified,  crystallized  notes  of  immortality.  Each 
day  is  for  them  only  so  many  hours  of  gladness  and  song. 
They  do  not  answer  for  their  actions  one  unto  another.  There 
is  no  bearing  of  one  another's  sorrows — no  overburdened 
heart  is  touched  to  the  quick  by  the  sorrows  of  others. 

Theirs  seemed  the  right  life  and  the  only  life  to  live,  a 
life  of  song,  of  love,  two  by  two  building  their  nests,  the 
earth  furnishing  their  food  and  their  home,  and  between 
times  singing  glad  notes  of  thankfulness  in  the  sheer  joy  of 
being  alive. 

Over  and  over,  more  clear  and  insistent,  came  the  song  of 
the  orioles  swinging  high  above  my  head,  and  the  robin's 
joyous  anthem  to  the  fresh  spring  morning  came  to  my  ears 
as  he  stopped  now  and  then  to  call,  "sweet,  sweet,"  to  his 
mate  hidden  in  her  downy  nest. 

Added  to  these  was  the  wordless  eloquence  of  the  wind 
among  the  pine  trees  which  seemed  to  possess  a  subtle  mean 
ing  in  the  faint  sweet  music  that  stole  into  my  heart.  It  was 
so  far  away,  so  touchingly  soft  and  tender  in  the  weaving  and 
unweaving  of  melodies.  There  were  deep  tones  like  God's 
great  voice  coming  from  the  sea  answering  unto  sea  against 
the  rock-ribbed  Golden  Gate.  Then  nearer  me  the  gentle 
zephyrs  sighed  beneath  the  canopy  overhead,  clear,  soft 
and  lulling,  like  angels  singing — while  the  quivering  trees 
clapped  their  rounded  leaves  together  in  joyous  glee. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  heard  a  far-away  echo  of  myriads  of 
angel  hands  applauding  the  grand  symphony,  Nature  respond 
ing  to  Nature's  God,  harmonious,  divinely  tender  and  appeal 
ing;  and  lying  prone  on  the  warm  pine  needles  I  watched  the 
great  fleecy,  foamy  clouds  rise  higher  and  higher  piling  above 
my  head,  and  I  fancied  I  saw  a  chariot  and  a  great  white 
throne,  then  hosts  of  dim  figures  surrounding  a  form  I  eag 
erly  imagined  to  be  the  King  of  kings;  and  amon^  them  I 
seemed  to  see  a  face — the  face  of  my  mother.  With  a  sob 
of  joy  I  held  up  my  arms — heaven's  gates  seemed  near  for  a 


FROM    THE   WORLD  81 

moment — then  the  vision  faded.  That  day  can  never  fade. 
The  picture  will  always  be  bright  in  memory's  halls,  and 
sacred,  too,  for  never  more  in  life  could  there  be  another  like 
it.  I  hated  to  see  the  shadows  lengthen  as  I  loitered  on  the 
way  back,  looking  down  aisles  of  forest  trees,  gathering  the 
perishable  flowers,  listening  to  the  innumerable  sounds  that 
seemed  to  be  pulsing  in  sympathy  with  my  happy  heart. 

I  watched  the  undulating  madronas  and  laurel  trees  and 
heard  whisperings  soft  and  gentle  like  nuns  in  prayer  com 
ing  to  me  from  the  great  cloistered  forest,  that  even  if  they 
brought  no  tangible  message  were  full  of  the  essence  of  peace 
and  the  spirit  of  love  which  was  a  balm  and  a  blessing  to  me. 

I  looked  upon  the  fair  scenes.  The  Mount  of  Beatitudes 
was  sublime  and  beautiful.  I  felt  I  had  received  a  benedic 
tion  today.  The  lovely  little  valleys,  the  wide  stretch  of 
waters  extending  to  unknown  regions,  the  islands  dotting  the 
bay  showed  through  a  luminous  atmosphere  fair,  hazy, 
dreamy — symbolical  of  my  life  that  was  to  be.  I  went  down 
from  that  enchanted  mountain  with  a  strange  peace  in  my 
heart,  and  so  happy  that  I  was  glad  I  had  no  one  with  me  to 
mar  my  dreams.  I  could  tell  it  to  the  winds  in  soft,  low 
snatches  of  song,  the  perfumed  airs  that  blew  out,  and  on 
over  the  depthless  ocean  holding  its  treasures  of  pearls  and 
gold,  guarding  them  as  my  heart  did  the  warm  gulf-stream 
of  his  love  that  had  found  and  warmed  the  cold  and  uncared- 
for  life  that  was  so  precious  to  me  now.  Then  I  was  sud 
denly  stricken  with  fear  lest  I  might  die  before  knowing  the 
absolute  bliss  of  being  his,  before  I  might  give  myself  up  to 
the  vast  unbounded  love  that  I  knew  existed  within  me;  that 
being  bestowed  upon  one  so  good  and  so  kind  would  create 
a  paradise  of  our  own  and  make  earth  so  beautiful  that  the 
,  heart  could  ask  for  no  greater  happiness. 


X 

"A  song  whose  echoes  softly  fell 

Around    my    heart    and    wove    its    mystic    spell ; 

A  laugh,  a  cry,  a  heart  that  broke — 

What  matters  life  or  love? 

It  all  ends  in  smoke." 

"Do  you  remember  those  lines,  Fred?"  I  asked  him  one 
morning,  "and  do  you  not  wish  the  writer  were  here?  She 
might  improvise  some  equally  appropriate  lines  while  we 
smoke,  as  she  did  the  aforesaid  lines.  Caro  mia;  I  think  I 
could  willingly  forego  all  these  languishing  eyes  for  just  one 
look  into  yours  today,"  I  said. 

"It  would  be  a  change,"  replied  Fred.  "She  is  worth  her 
weight  in  gold.  She  is  not  enervating.  There  is  a  sort  of 
tonic  in  her  presence,  in  her  smile  and  the  good  strong  clasp 
of  her  hand  is  inspiring.  She  flashes  her  vivid  personality 
upon  one's  sluggish  brain  with  an  intensity  that  is  exhilara 
ting.  You  have  mentioned  the  one  woman  who  would  be  a 
joy  forever  in  traveling.  What  made  you  think  of  her?" 

"I  do  not  know;  the  smoke  got  in  my  eyes,  I  think.  I 
often  wonder  what  that  vivified  bit  of  femininity  knows  about 
a  'heart  that  broke.'  How  do  any  of  us  know,  unless  one 
is  a  fool  like  myself  and  talks.  Never  mind,"  I  said  hastily 
changing  the  subject,  for  really  I  am  getting  quite  light- 
hearted  about  Fred.  His  gloominess  is  perceptibly  vanishing 
as  we  are  busy  with  our  sight-seeing  and  once  or  twice  I  have 
found  him  chaffing  with  the  senoritas  while  buying  their 
wares,  and  he  is  given,  I  observe,  to  returning  the  languishing 
glances  bestowed  upon  us  from  the  fair  faces  that  peer  at  us 
from  the  iron-barred  windows.  Not  for  several  pesos,  how 
ever,  would  1  allow  him  to  know  that  I  detect  the  slightest 
change. 

1  think  this  jaunt  will  prove  as  beneficial  to  his  shattered 
heart  and  broken  life  as  it  will  to  my  jaded  and  run-down 
nervous  system.  We  are  both  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  every 
hour  and  a  fascination  of  the  places  visited  has  mastered  us. 
It  seems  as  if  we  are  both  fast  forgetting  the  old  life  and  en- 

8* 


FROM   THE   WORLD  83 

tering  a  new  one  with  zest  and  renewed  energy.  I  only  wish 
I  could  go  more  into  detail  than  the  mere  outlines  of  travel 
that  must  content  you  for  the  present,  and  so  I  will  continue 
my  description. 

Guadalajara,  contrary  to  the  rule  about  first  impressions, 
grew  in  attractiveness  upon  me,  possibly,  because  of  the 
many  charming  places  in  the  vicinity.  I  remember  San  Pedro 
and  the  ride  along  the  ancient  calzada  lined  with  mag 
nificent  old  trees.  This,  the  favorite  suburb  of  Guadalajara, 


OX-CART    AND    PEON. 

has  well-paved  streets,  handsome  residences  embowered  in 
tropical  foliage  and  surrounded  by  beautiful  gardens.  It 
seemed  another  world  out  there  amid  the  beautiful  out-of- 
town  homes.  "Summer  residences"  are  not  spoken  of  in  a 
region  where  it  is  always  summer. 

I  recall  another  day  and  a  drive  along  the  beautiful  river 
out  to  Zapopan,  where  a  delightful  afternoon  was  spent 
studying  the  people,  enjoying  the  quaint  life  and  wandering 
through  a  marvelous  church.  We  returned  late  in  the  after 
noon  over  a  road  so  old  and  worn  that  it  seemed  more  like 
the  worn-out  bed  of  some  water- forgotten  stream. 


84  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

We  stopped  now  and  then  to  gather  fruits  from  strange 
trees  and  watched  the  peons  carrying  enormous  burdens  on 
their  backs.  Most  of  the  products  of  the  country  are  trans 
ported  to  the  city  by  men  and  donkeys.  Here,  at 
least,  it  was  necessary  for  the  road  was  so  rough  that  we  had 
to  leave  the  carriage  quite  often,  and  a  two-wheeled  cart 
would  be  out  of  the  question. 

As  the  sun  went  down  a  golden  light  shone  over  the  beau 
tiful  valley  of  the  Lerma.  Some  old  aqueducts  reminding  me 
of  the  Roman  Campagna  were  in  the  distance;  other  old  ruins 
showed  here  and  there,  and  shapeless  forms  draped  in 
rebosos  and  scrapes  rode  silently  along  the  tortuous  road.  As 
we  came  near  to  the  city  the  golden  glow  faded  from  the 
Gothic-Tuscan  towers  of  the  Basilica,  the  white  spires  of  the 
churches  and  Oriental-looking  houses  gleamed  in  a  soft  light. 

Faint  musical  sounds  from  bells  came  across  the  plateau, 
sounding  the  mystic  hour  of  the  Angelus.  The  rhythmic  beat 
was  in  my  ears.  The  breath  of  the  soft  tropic  night,  fragrant 
and  sweet,  was  in  my  nostrils;  and  the  last  look  at  the 
great  plaza  with  its  lights  and  gay  throngs  of  people  drove 
all  that  was  unpleasant  from  my  mind. 

And  I  remember — for  some  impressions  are  lasting — only 
the  beautiful  and  charming  Florence  of  Mexico  as  I  saw  it 
on  that  last  evening.  The  scene  was  enchanting,  and  even 
the  poor  ragged  bits  of  humanity  seemed  transformed  into  a 
happy  and  contented  lot,  each  and  all  enjoying  the  dolce  far 
niente  of  the  hour. 

Once  again  we  were  in  the  cars  with  our  train  speeding 
over  one  of  the  most  attractive  and  fertile  sections  of  Mexico, 
through  a  portion  of  the  State  of  Jalisco  along  the  Lerma — 
the  Mississippi  of  the  Republic.  There  were  glimpses  of 
Lake  Chapala,  which  is  larger  than  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and 
higher  than  the  top  of  Mount  Washington. 

The  route  lay  through  a  splendid  wheat  country  and  the 
miles  of  fields  of  a  large  hacienda,  where  were  thousands  of 
men  at  work  on  the  different  farms — for  the  hacienda  is  the 
headquarters  of  the  vast  estate — and  hundreds  of  oxen  and 
other  animals  were  at  work  or  being  pastured  on  the  rich 
lands. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  85 

A  whole  village  clusters  around  the  residence  of  the  pro 
prietor,  and  there  are  electric  lights  and  a  railroad  owned 
and  operated  by  the  owner  of  miles  and  miles  of  land  which 
produces  anything  and  everything  the  heart  desires. 

We  skimmed  over  steel  threads  along  the  trail  of  the  Tol- 
tecs  and  Aztecs  through  this  old  land  of  the  Montezumas, 
finding  much  of  interest  in  every  mile. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight  we  paused  at  Irapuato 
on  the  main  line,  famous  for  its  strawberries.  Ghost-like 
figures  offered  baskets  heaped  with  the  fruit  and  soft  voices 
cried,  "Fresas,  fresas  dos  reales,"  and  for  twenty-five  cents 
or  less  than  ten  in  our  money,  one  can  buy  a  basketful.  They 
ripen  every  month  in  the  year  and  are  abundant,  for  there  is 
plenty  of  water  for  irrigation,  though  their  up-to-date  water 
works  in  the  plaza  consists  of  an  old-time  crotch-and-pole 
well-sweep. 

But  even  that  is  better  than  the  conditions  in  Marfil,  where 
I  saw  nude  men  on  a  tread-mill  drawing  the  water,  bent 
double  on  the  high  wheels,  no  stopping  or  resting,  working 
the  livelong  day,  as  do  so  many  others  in  this  land  of  free 
silver,  for  thirteen  cents  per  diem. 

We  speeded  on  over  the  hills,  those  same  hills  over  which 
the  mysterious  Toltecs  came  from  the  north  in  the  year  648. 
The  scenery  is  grand;  there  are  mountains,  valleys  and  plains 
with  haciendas  dotting  the  landscape  amid  well-tilled  fields, 
which  must  possess  wonderfully  rich  soil,  judging  from  the 
primitive  plows  which  barely  stir  up  the  earth. 

Then  we  paused  at  Queretaro,  one  of  the  smallest  divisions 
of  the  Republic,  but  one  that  is  replete  with  history.  1 
thought  of  poor  Carlotta,  who  lost  her  reason;  of  Maximil 
ian,  who  was  shot;  of  the  crosses  on  the  hill,  which  are  grim 
evidences  of  the  futility  of  an  attempted  monarchy  on  the 
North  American  continent. 

We  passed  under  some  stone  arches  of  an  aqueduct  which 
brings  the  water  into  the  city  from  the  mountains.  This  lux 
ury  the  city  enjoys  through  the  generosity  of  one  man.  A 
vision  of  the  picturesque  arches  left  a  deep  impression  upon 
my  mind  as  we  left  the  town  and  the  clamorous  opal- 
venders. 


86 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


Further  on  the  train  stopped,  and  we  got  out  to  look  at 
a  great  piece  of  work  which  has  no  parallel  in  the  history  of 


IXTACCIHUATL, 


FEET. 


civilization — the  famous  Nochistongo — the  futile  cut  or  canal 
which  is  some  twelve  miles  in  length,  with  an  average  depth 
of  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet.  Every  foot  of  earth  was 
carried  out  on  the  shoulders  of  men.  Millions  of  dollars  and 


FROM   THE   WORLD  87 

thousands  of  lives  were  lost,  yet  it  failed  in  its  purpose  of 
draining  the  City  of  Mexico. 

From  the  train  we  had  a  vision  of  broken  mountains  and 
hills,  hamlets,  lakes  and  towns,  while  reaching  far  up  toward 
a  turquoise  sky  of  blue  were  peaks  of  far-away  ranges.  Yet 
in  the  clear  atmosphere  the  white  glistening  snows  on  the 
peaks  of  Popocatepetl  and  Ixtaccihuatl  seemed  almost  within 
reach.  Then,  amid  a  jangle  of  emotions,  Fred  and  I  found 
ourselves  in  the  city  Cortez  captured. 

The  history  of  the  City  of  Mexico  is  substantially  the  his 
tory  of  the  country;  but  I  am  not  a  historian  as  you  know, 
Jack,  simply  a  traveler  intent  on  whatever  is  pleasing  or  of 
interest  to  me,  and  I  only  mention  a  few  of  the  things  that 
appeal  to  me. 

The  Hotel  Iturbide,  where  we  lodged,  stands  where  Aztec 
kings  once  had  their  gardens  for  their  wild  beasts,  and  is 
where  the  first  church  was  built  by  the  Franciscans,  of  stone 
taken  from  the  Aztec  temple.  It  is  an  old  palace  transformed 
into  a  hotel.  Its  main  patio  is  not  attractive,  being  destitute 
of  plants  and  flowers,  but  it  is  rich  in  carved  stone,  arches  and 
columns. 

Our  names  and  the  number  of  the  rooms  being  written  on 
the  hotel  register — which  is  a  black-board — we  were  shown 
our  rooms  which  opened  on  a  smaller  court.  The  gentleman 
of  the  bed  chamber  brought  the  lampere  and  cerrillo — lamp 
and  matches — then  agua  caliente  and  with  a  "buenas  noches, 
senors,"  we  were  left  with  the  absolute  necessities  of  life, 
in  peace  after  our  long  journey,  though  he  thought,  if  appear 
ances  were  worth  anything,  that  water  was  useless. 

In  going  out  the  next  morning  I  found  myself 
shivering  with  cold,  and  try  as  I  might  the  triumph 
of  mind  over  matter  did  not  occur.  I  reasoned  that  it  was 
not  cold;  that  I  was  down  in  the  torrid  zone,  and,  while  assert 
ing  that  I  was  warm,  knew  that  my  hands  and  feet  were 
cold;  that  there  were  little  rills  of  icy  coldness  chasing  up  and 
down  my  spinal  column. 

Then  I  remembered  that  I  was  one  and  a  half  miles  nearer 
heaven  than  when  at  home,  and  wicked  thoughts  of  a  desirable 
place  in  regions  lower  down  restored  my  good  humor  and  a 
laugh  changed  the  temperature. 


88  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

From  the  roof  of  the  hotel  I  saw  the  charming  city  about 
me.  There  were  towers  and  domes,  parks  and  plazas,  long 
tree-lined  avenues.  Electric  cars  were  everywhere  on  lines 
radiating  in  all  directions  from  the  Plaza  Major,  which  is 
dominated  and  overshadowed  by  the  great  cathedral  tow 
ering  on  one  side  and  the  President's  Palace  on  the  other. 
Here  the  bands  play  and  the  poorer  classes  throng  the  paths 
and  rest  on  the  seats.  It  is  their  own  or  rather  is  left  prin 
cipally  to  them. 

The  Alameda,  farther  down  on  the  Paseo,  leading  out 
toward  Chapultepec  is  for  the  better  class.  We  sat  in  the  same 
Alameda  one  Sunday  under  a  canvas  covering  which  is  put 
up  each  Sabbath,  and  watched  the  fashionable  parade  which 
is  much  like  the  Sunday  church  parade  in  London. 

Everyone  evidently  had  on  his  or  her  best.  Some  of  the 
dresses  of  the  women  were  very  much  of  the  texture  which 
our  women  wear  in  California  in  June.  We  enjoyed  the  rich 
costumes,  bright  faces,  and  low  musical  language. 

Here  we  saw  the  rather  fetching  double-kiss  always  given 
on  the  cheek — there  are  some  sanitary  customs  in  Mexico — 
and  the  affectionate  pat  on  the  shoulder  and  pretty  way  of 
saluting  each  other.  Society  may  be  seen  and  appreciated  at 
the  Alameda  at  noon  on  Sundays  and  the  other  extreme  at 
the  Plaza  Major  late  in  the  afternoon. 


XI 

[ 

"He  is  coming,  he  is  coming; 
In  my  throbing  heart  I  feel  it ; 

There  is  music  in  my  blood  and  it  whispers  all  day  long. 
That  my  love  unknown  comes  toward  me  ! 
Ah,  my  heart  he  need  not  steal  it, 

For  I   cannot  hide  the   secret  that  it  murmurs   in  its   song.'' 

As  TOLD  IN  THE  JOURNAL 

My  slumbers  were  very  light  that  night,  and  the  next  morn 
ing,  true  to  her  promise,  Mrs.  Browning  gave  me  papers  and 
instructions  regarding  my  money.  She  could  not  dream  how 
glad  I  was  to  feel  that  I  was  independent  and  free  from  them 
all.  I  had  planned  to  slip  away  from  Jane  and  find  my  way 
to  the  station.  I  would  go  to  Santa  Barbara,  to  my  mother's 
grave.  Perhaps  1  might  live  again  in  the  little  cottage.  I 
thought  I  would  know  it,  and,  sanctified  by  her  presence,  I 
would  be  happy  and  I  could  assume  another  name  so  my 
guardian  could  not  trace  me.  I  was  not  learned  in  the  ways 
of  the  world  as  yet.  It  was  all  quite  easy  now  as  I  planned 
it. 

First  of  all,  when  we  arrived  in  the  city  I  insisted  that  Jane 
should  take  me  to  the  bank  where  I  drew  so  large  an  amount 
of  money  that  she  stared  in  astonishment.  All  being  satis 
factory,  I  told  her  that  as  Mrs.  Browning  had  said  we  were 
to  start  soon  on  our  travels,  I  did  not  want  to  come  again 
before  leaving  and  that  I  wanted  money  to  get  what  I  desired. 

All  this  was  true.  There  was  no  falsehood.  I  needed  it 
and  though  she  did  not  know  it,  I  was  not  going  to  have  the 
horror  of  her  company.  Later  came  the  farce  of  purchasing 
what  I  knew  to  be  needless  articles,  and  all  the  while  I  was 
wondering  how  I  could  lose  myself. 

Finally  fate  was  kind  to  me, — Jane  went  up  in  an  elevator 
on  some  errand,  telling  me  to  remain  in  the  aisle  of  the  store 
until  she  returned.  I  was  out  like  a  flash,  hurrying  away  I 
knew  not  whither.  I  sprang  on  a  car  and  almost  before  I 

89 


9o 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


realized  where  I  was,  found  the  car  was  at  the  Ferry.  1  got 
off,  as  did  the  other  occupants  of  the  car,  and  stood  unde 
cided  for  a  moment,  then  a  hand  was  placed  on  my  shoulder. 
I  almost  fainted  with  terror.  Jane,  1  thought.  Then  a  voice 
said: 

"Alice,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

It  was  Mr.  Bertram  and  heaven  seemed  to  have  dropped 
down  at  my  feet. 

uOh !  is  it  you  ?  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy !  I  was  wondering 
how  I  could  find  you.  I  wanted  to  look  up  your  address  in  a 
directory  when  I  had  time." 

He  looked  strange  when  I  mentioned  the  directory,  but  a 
moment  later  asked  anxiously,  "What  do  you  mean  by  time?" 

"I  haven't  a  moment  now.  Oh,  please,  for  heaven's  sake, 
take  me  away  somewhere,  quickly,  where  no  one  will  see  us ; 
I  have  so  much  to  tell  you."  He  glanced  hurriedly  around, 
beckoned  a  cab,  put  me  in,  and  I  heard  him  say : 

"Drive  anywhere, — only  keep  going." 

He  jumped  in,  slammed  the  door,  pulled  the  curtains 
partly  down,  then  said:  "In  heaven's  name  what  is  the 
matter?" 

I  began  to  laugh,  then  all  in  a  moment  everything  seemed 
to  grow  dark.  I  knew  nothing  for  an  instant  it  seemed,  but 
I  realized  soon  that  he  was  chafing  my  hands  and  begging 
me  to  speak  to  him.  I  tried  to  sit  up  but  was  so  faint  that  I 
could  not.  He  put  his  arms  about  me  and  drew  my  head  on 
his  shoulder.  Tears  of  happiness  were  in  my  eyes.  I  felt  so 
glad  to  see  him  again,  to  feel  that  I  could  tell  him  all — where 
I  was  going,  and  then  he  could  find  me, — only  he  should 
know,  I  thought.  I  felt  the  tears  start  down  my  cheeks,  and 
trying  to  raise  my  head  he  saw  them  and  bending  over  me 
kissed  them  away.  Then  he  drew  me  to  him,  kissing  me 
again  and  again,  just  as  he  had  the  first  time.  I  put  my  arms 
around  his  neck  and  felt  I  had  nothing  to  fear  in  all  the  wide 
world. 

"Are  you  strong  enough  to  explain  why  you  are  here,  all 
alone?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  not  alone.  I  ran  away  from  Miss  Hill,  who  is  a 
prying,  deceitful  person.  I  do  not  know  why  I  feel  so  faint, 
but  I  believe  I  forgot  to  eat  any  breakfast." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  91 

"Have  you  had  no  luncheon?" 

"No,  Jane  was  hurrying  to  get  through, — she  said  we 
would  have  something  soon,  but  I  left  her.  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it,  but  the  carriage  makes  so  much  noise,"  and  I 
paused.  ., 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  I  heard  him  give  some 
order  to  the  driver.  Then  he  said:  "You  must  not  say 
anything  further  at  present." 

Before  long  we  were  driving  along  a  tree-lined  road. 
There  was  a  park,  I  thought,  and  soon  the  cab  stopped.  I 
was  assisted  out  and  was  taken  into  a  room.  Almost  imme 
diately  a  cup  of  broth  was  given  me  and  I  felt  refreshed  at 
once. 

"Now,  rest  a  few  moments,  then  you  may  have  something 
more  substantial.  Be  quiet  until  I  return." 

Soon  a  good  dinner  was  served,  and  between  the  courses  I 
told  him  all, — that  I  was  to  be  sent  to  Europe  with  Jane, 
whom  I  detested,  for  she  had  been  very  unkind  to  me. 

"I  will  never  go, — I  will  die,  away  among  strangers  with 
her."  Then  I  told  him  my  plan.  1  should  hide  until  I  was 
eighteen,  and  that  no  one  was  to  know  where  I  was  hidden 
but  himself. 

"I  could  not  endure  life  without  you  now,"  I  said. 

"Is  it  so  serious  as  that?"  and  he  smiled. 

"You  must  know  it  is,  now  that  I  belong  to  you." 

"And  so  you  belong  to  me?"  he  said  slowly. 

"Ever  since  you  kissed  me  out  there  in  the  woods,  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else,"  I  replied.  "I  have  never 
seemed  to  belong  to  anyone  since  I  was  left  an 
orphan,  until  I  met  you,  and  now  I  know  that  heaven  has 
sent  you  to  me  and  that  I  am  yours,  body  and  soul, — your 
Alice,  who  will  never  kiss  anyone  but  you,"  and  I  laughed 
in  sheer  delight.  Heaven  was  farther  away  from  me  than 
I  knew,  for  he  caught  me  in  his  arms  and  held  me  in  his 
strong  embrace. 

"My  little  girl,  my  Alice,"  he  murmured,  "I  love  you, 
darling,  darling, — my  God  I  am  forgetting  all;  everything 
that  a  man  should  remember!" 

"And  so  am  I.  It  is  sweet  to  forget ;  I  only  want  to  remem 
ber  life  since  I  met  you,"  I  cried  in  all  innocence,  as  my  lonely 


92  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

life  came  up  in  all  its  blankness  before  me.  "Why  should 
we  not  forget  the  whole  world, — only  just  think  of  our 
selves, — isn't  that  enough?"  I  said. 

"If  you  think  so,  why  not?"  he  answered.  Then  he 
poured  out  some  wine,  which  bubbled  and  frothed  in  the 
glass.  "Drink,"  he  said,  as  he  touched  my  glass  with  his, 
"to  the  memory  of  the  first  kiss." 

I  drank  the  wine  which  went  through  my  veins  like  liquid 
sunbeams,  warming,  thrilling  and  exhilarating.  My  whole 
being  seemed  re-vivified.  There  was  music  somewhere, — I 
heard  the  sound  of  a  harp,  and  then  all  the  sweetness  of 
earth's  harmonies  I  had  heard  yesterday.  Was  it  yesterday,  or 
a  thousand  years  ago  ?  Somewhere  in  another  sphere,  in  a 
life  forgotten,  until  now,  1  had  re-lived  moments  like  these. 
The  voice  of  many  waters,  the  soft  strains  of  music  seemed 
blended  into  an  old  new  song.  The  chant  of  love  and  heaven 
and  space  and  time  echoed  back  the  melody,  for  heart  had 
called  unto  heart,  and  lips  and  eyes  answered  love's  sweet 
hymn.  Reason  fled,  and  love  usurped  her  place. 

"Dear  child,  my  little  love!"  I  seemed  to  hear  him  say. 
"We  have  found  the  Philosopher's  Stone;  the  unsolved  ques 
tion  of  life — mine  and  yours — dear  one,  has  been  answered. 
It  is  love, — love,  the  one  enchantment  of  human  life.  We 
will  drink  our  fill  from  the  fountain  which  can  only  purify 
and  justify.  A  mad  love  like  yours  and  mine  can  never  be  set 
aside  for  a  cold  and  chilling  idea  of  duty." 

Then  I  remembered  nothing, — only  a  strange  hallucination 
possessed  my  brain.  I  seemed  to  see  my  mother.  She  was 
in  the  arms  of  a  man,  and  while  his  kisses  rained  on  her  face, 
I  felt  them.  He  talked  in  a  low  voice  that  was  trembling 
with  love.  I  knew  and  felt  every  kiss,  heard  every  word. 
It  was  the  delirium  of  love  that  blotted  out  the  whole  world, 
leaving  passion  to  usurp  the  senses, — then  a  blank, — and  it 
was  ages,  eons  of  time  before  I  awoke  to  begin  life  again. 

The  morning  sun  was  shining  when  I  awoke  with  a  shiver 
of  dread  and  horror.  Where  was  I?  I  had  never  seen  this 
room  before,  I  was  sure.  I  got  up,  but  my  head  seemed  to 
whirl.  I  could  not  walk,  but  staggered  to  a  chair.  I  tried  to 
think,  but  thoughts  would  not  come  connectedly.  Idly  I 
glanced  around.  I  saw  a  bell,  which  1  finally  reached,  press- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  93 

ing  it  and  falling  back  in  a  chair,  almost  senseless.  A  woman 
answered  the  bell : 

"What  does  madam  wish?" 

To  whom  was  she  speaking,  I  wondered.  I  was  too  ill  to 
look  around,  but  I  said,  "Where  am  I?" 

"You  are  in  your  own  room.  Your  husband  brought  you 
here.  You  were  very  ill,  and  I  helped  undress  you  and  put 
you  to  bed." 

"My  husband!"  I  gasped,  and  then  the  bliss  of  heaven 
stole  into  my  racked  brain.  Then  we  were  married !  Why  it 
seemed  as  though  I  could  recall  something  of  it.  He  had 
said  something  to  a  man  who  came  into  the  room  when  I  was 
dizzy  and  everything  seemed  whirling  around.  I  thought, 
oh,  how  good  of  him  to  make  me  his  wife ! 

Gradually  it  all  came  back  to  me, — yesterday's  flight,  my 
terror,  the  running  away  from  Jane,  and  my  joy  in  finding 
him.  Oh !  I  forgot, — my  husband, — 1  must  say,  even  to 
myself,  I  thought. 

"But  where  is  he?"  I  stammered. 

"He  left  word  that  he  was  compelled  to  go  away  to  attend 
to  an  important  matter.  You  were  to  have  breakfast  when 
you  desired,  then  rest  afterwards  until  he  came.  Shall  I  order 
for  you  now?" 

She  was  very  gracious  and  anxious  to  please  me, — so 
different  from  those  with  whom  I  had  been  staying. 

"I  am  not  hungry.     I  do  not  know  what  I  can  eat." 

"Then  I  will  see  to  it  myself,"  and  she  hurried  away. 

I  sat  lost  in  thought  until  she  opened  another  door  and 
asked  me  to  come  in.  A  cozy  little  room  with  a  cheerful 
fire,  a  piano,  books  and  easy  chairs  filled  the  room,  and  a  tray 
with  breakfast  was  placed  on  a  table  near  the  fire.  She  was 
very  solicitous,  urging  me  to  eat, — I  looked  so  wretched, 
had  1  been  ill  long?  she  talked  in  a  continuous  strain.  I  found 
it  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  say  much.  I  simply  said  only 
a  fainting  spell, — that  my  head  ached  dreadfully  and  I  hoped 
to  be  better  soon.  I  was  nearly  distracted.  I  wanted  to  get 
her  out  of  my  sight,  to  have  time  to  think  was  all  I  prayed  for 
just  at  that  moment.  When  once  alone,  I  laughed  in  a 
hysterical  way,  I  suppose,  for  she  knocked  at  the  door  and 
asked  if  I  desired  anything.  I  said,  "No,  only  to  be  quiet." 


94  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Then  I  thought  with  delight  of  Jane's  surprise  and  her  fury 
when  1  could  not  be  found;  of  the  news  she  would  carry  back. 
Well,  I  would  let  them  worry  for  a  while.  My  husband  and 
I  would  go  together,  some  day,  then  I  would  tell  them 
I  was  married, — that  I  had  thought  a  surprise  of  that  kind 
would  be  better  than  a  year's  travel. 

So  I  mused,  and  wondering  a  little  how  strange  it  was  that 
a  priest  could  be  found  so  quickly,  and  we  be  married  in  such 
haste.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  all  probability  there 
was  a  fear  in  Mr.  Bertram's  heart  that  I  would  be  found  and 
be  taken  away  from  him,  and  that  was  why  he  would  not  wait 
until  the  next  day.  Oh,  how  dearly  I  loved  him. — mine  now 
and  forever!  The  old  life  was  gone,  as  was  the  old,  desolate 
feeling.  Kneeling,  I  thanked  heaven  for  my  gift, — the  love 
of  a  good  man,  who  was  so  tender  and  loving  to  the  helpless 
orphan,  and  then  I  lay  down  on  a  couch  and  went  to  sleep. 

When  I  awoke  some  one  was  bending  over  me.  It  was  my 
husband.  I  caught  hold  of  his  hand,  pressed  it  to  my  lips, 
then  held  it  to  my  heart.  He  bent  over  me. 

"My  poor  little  Alice,  do  you  forgive  me?" 

"Forgive, — I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I  only  know  that  I 
bless  and  love  you,  my  darling,  my  own !" 

"You  do  love  me,  sweet  Alice  ?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much, — all  my  life  I  will  spend 
in  trying  to  tell  you  what  my  heart  feels.  I  will  live  if  only 
to  prove  how  I  can  and  do  worship  you,  my  darling,  my 
king!  I  shall  call  you  my  king  from  now  on,  and  you  shall 
make  me  your  queen  or  your  slave, — I  shall  not  care  which, 
only  I  shall  stipulate  that  1  am  never  to  be  parted  from  you, 
or  at  least  not  long  away  from  your  gracious  presence." 

"But  it  will  be  necessary.  I  cannot  be  with  you  all  the 
time, — there  are  certain  duties,  you  know  a  man  cannot  ignore 
them  all." 

"We  will  not  discuss  duties  now,"  I  said.  "I  want  to  thank 
you  for  your  thoughtfulness  last  night." 

"Do  you  call  it  thoughtfulness?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Certainly  I  do.  You  knew  I  did  not  want  to  return,  so 
you  made  it  impossible.  I  do  not  understand  it  all  now,  but 
that  will  come  later.  Let  us  be  happy;  but  tell  me,  when 
will  you  take  me  out  for  a  walk?" 


FROM   THE   WORLD  95 

"Not  until  you  are  stronger,"  he  said ;  "then  we  will  drive." 

The  afternoon  was  ended.  We  dined  and  I  felt  so  well, 
that  I  played  and  sang  for  him.  He  was  pleased,  and  begged 
for  another  and  another  song,  praising  me  extravagantly, 
calling  me  his  nightingale  and  his  dear  little  song-bird. 

"Why,  Alice,  t  did  not  dream  you  had  such  an  exquisite 
voice,"  he  said. 

"Well,  we  have  a  lot  to  learn  about  each  other.  But  then 
we  have  a  whole  lifetime  in  which  to  learn  it,  haven't  we?" 

"And  you  have  no  fears  for  the  future?" 

"None,"  I  replied,  so  long  as  we  both  live,"  and  1  ran  and 
threw  myself  in  his  arms,  kissing  and  caressing  him  to  my 

heart's  content. 

********* 

A  few  days  passed, — days  of  unalloyed  happiness.  We 
walked  and  drove,  but  usually  late  in  the  afternoon,  through 
that  glorious  park,  watching  the  ocean  from  some  high  point, 
or  driving  out  in  the  moonlight  along  the  beach.  One  night 
he  told  me  that  he  must  be  absent  for  a  while  on  business,  and 
that  it  would  be  safer  for  me  to  be  out  of  the  city  during  the 
time. 

"Mrs.  Andrews  is  giving  up  this  house.  She  is  not  well 
and  needs  a  rest,  she  says.  How  would  you  like  a  little 
journey  to  Alaska  and  return  perhaps  by  Yellowstone  Park? 
You  have  never  traveled, — the  world  is  new  to  you,  my  dear, 
and  it  will  serve  to  occupy  your  time  while  I  am  away.  You 
would  be  wretched  here  alone;  besides  there  is  danger  of 
someone  finding  your  retreat, — the  Brownings  would  claim 
you  and  send  you  away  with  Jane,  where  it  would  be  impos 
sible  for  me  to  see  you." 

"But  how  could  they,  now  that  I  belong  to  you.  You  have 
to  the  right  to  claim  me  anywhere?" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  said.  "But  if,  when  I  am  gone 
and  they  fetched  a  policeman, — you  are  not  of  age  yet,  you 
know,"  and  he  smiled. 

The  thought  of  Jane  and  her  acidulated  countenance  and 
her  veiled  sneers,  and  the  idea  of  being  taken  away,  filled  me 
with  terror.  I  was  the  merest  babe  in  matters  pertaining  to 
the  law,  so,  though  my  heart  was  almost  breaking  with  the 
idea  of  going  away,  I  consented.  He  cheered  me  up;  told  me 


96  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  must  write  down  every  item  of  travel  that  interested  me 
and  read  it  to  him  when  I  returned. 

"But  am  I  not  to  write  you  at  all  while  I'm  away?"  I  asked. 
"I  shall  be  traveling  constantly,  but  I  can  write  to  you  at  certain 
places.  You  will  have  letters  at  Seattle  ancVTacoma.  I  shall 
address  them  in  an  outer  envelope  to  Mrs*.  Andrews  so  she 
can  get  them  from  the  postoffices.  I  cannot  allow  you  to  hunt 
up  those  places, — you  might  get  lost,  you  know,"  he  said 
teasingly. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  ready.  Mrs.  Andrews  had  kindly 
taken  me  down-town  early  one  morning  after  my  arrival  at 
her  house  and  I  had  replenished  my  wardrobe.  I  told  her  that 
I  had  left  home  hurriedly. 

"I  know  all  about  it.  Mr.  Bertram  told  me,"  and  she 
smiled.  "You  are  not  the  first  one  who  has  not  waited  for  a 


trousseau." 


"Well,  I  have  been  spared  the  trouble.  I  do  not  like  the 
bother  of  clothes,"  1  replied. 

"Some  day  you  will  change,  perhaps.  You  will  always 
want  to  look  well  in  the  eyes  of  him  you  love,"  she  answered. 

"Do  you  think  my  husband  cares?  If  so,  I  must  buy 
everything  pretty.  I  had  not  thought  about  it.  You  will  help 
me,  won't  you,  to  get  what  is  necessary.  You  will  know  best, 
and  I  want  to  look  as  pretty  as  possible.  After  our  return, 
we  will  discuss  the  matter  seriously.  Now,  we  are  to  think 
of  our  journey  only." 

*  *  *  *  I  can  write  of  my  heartache  and  the  terrible 
homesick  feeling  I  experienced  in  leaving.  I  had  never  known 
the  feeling  before,  for  I  had  not  loved  anyone  at  the  convent 
and  I  never  felt  at  home  at  the  Browning's.  I  could  not 
speak  of  it  to  Mrs.  Andrews,  though  she  was  kinder  than 
any  other  woman  had  ever  been  to  me.  I  shall  write  it  all 
down,  just  as  my  "King"  had  asked  me;  but  he  can  never 
know,  though.  I  may  read  this  to  him  some  day  when  I  come 
back  to  my  own.  How  like  death  was  that  parting,  but  he 
said  I  must  be  brave  for  his  sake  and  not  make  it  harder  for 
him.  It  was  not  to  be  so  very  long,  the  weeks  would  fly  when 
once  I  was  interested. 

I  did  not  sleep  much  that  first  night  on  the  cars, — every 
thing  was  new  and  strange  and  the  night  was  hot  and  uncom- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  97 

fortable.  At  the  first  peep  of  day,  the  train  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  I  heard  the  gurgle  and  dash  of  running  waters. 
Hurriedly  I  dressed  and  stepped  out  on  the  platform  and 
took  deep  breaths  of  the  cool,  sweet,  pine-scented  air. 

I  watched  the  limpid,  sparkling  waters  of  the  Sacramento 
river,  which  I  knew  had  its  birth  farther  up  in  the  heart  of  the 
Shasta  mountains.  It  sparkled  and  danced  with  joy  in  all  its 
newness,  fresh  from  the  fountain  source,  fed  by  virgin  snows. 

So  much  I  had  read;  but,  ah,  the  thrill  of  excitement  that 
possessed  me  and  kept  me  enthralled  as  we  sped  on  through 
the  whole  morning  aglow  with  light  and  life.  I  thought  if 
my  darling  were  only  with  me,  earth  could  hold  no  greater 
joy;  but  in  the  exhilaration  of  the  atmosphere  my  spirits  rose 
and  I  was  happier  every  hour,  as  we  flashed  around  curves, 
over  bridges  and  through  tunnels. 

Someone  said,  "Look,"  pointing  heavenward,  and  through 
the  trees  and  mountain  ridges,  glancing  upward,  something 
pure  and  white  glistened  through  the  blue  haze.  Still  follow 
ing  the  outline  I  saw  Shasta's  unparalleled  dome.  I  had  never 
seen  snow  before,  and  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  that 
wonderful  peak  with  its  glistening  crown  of  wthite  looking 
down  in  majesty  upon  the  lower  hills,  up  which  we  were 
creeping  in  sinuous  curves, — the  train  a  great  dull,  creeping 
thing,  winding  like  a  serpent  up  and  up  toward  that  peak, 
"Lone  as  God,"  I  had  read  somewhere — seemed  unearthly. 
Never  in  all  my  life  had  I  felt  the  awe,  wonder  and  adoration 
that  I  felt  when  looking  on  that  marvel  of  the  Creator!  My 
littleness,  an  atom  drifting  hither  and  thither  upon  the  eddies 
of  life.  I  felt  I  had  never  known  what  strength  or  stability 
meant. 

The  ocean  was  changing,  restless,  its  waters  ever  pushing 
up  to  the  farthest  mark,  then  pulling  away  as  if  in  rage, — 
rising,  falling,  ever  and  ever.  I  had  watched  the  sudden 
glory  of  the  rainbow  in  its  glowing  beauty,  gleaming  meteor- 
like  in  the  heavens,  turn  to  cold  gray  nothingness  in  an 
instant.  The  stars  went  down,  the  moon  changed  its  full 
round  face  and  dwindled  away  to  nothing,  except  a  faint 
curved  bent  gleam  of  silver.  The  flowers  came  and  went, 
but  this  I  know  was  here  when  the  "Morning  stars  sang 
together  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  aloud  for  joy." 


98  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  never  before  understood  why  the  heathen  worshipped 
idols:  a  Parsee  caressing  the  warm  sunbeams,  the  devout 
sun-worshipper  turning  a  rapt  face  toward  the  East,  humbling 
himself  before  the  God  of  day.  Surely  untutored  savages 
also  in  the  cycles  gone  by  must  have  wondered  and  knelt  to 
this  great  white,  glistening  Thing,  fresh  even  now,  as  if  just 
from  the  Creator's  hands. 

That  first  day  over  those  curves  and  grades,  on  past  the 
glorious  peak,  still  on  through  the  picturesque  Siskiyou  moun 
tains,  through  what  to  me  was  unrivaled  scenery,  left  unfad 
ing  pictures.  *  *  *  A  whirl  of  emotion  was  mine  as  we 
journeyed  north,  through  a  succession  of  mountains  and  val 
leys,  by  rushing  rivers  and  quiet  villages, — the  days  were  too 
short  and  the  nights  too  long.  Then  we  came  to  the  end  of 
the  journey  by  railroad,  and  as  the  sun  sank  westward  in 
unclouded  splendor,  still  another  glorious  vision  greeted  my 
eyes — Mount  Rainier,  looming  up  in  grandeur,  proud  of 
its  two  feet  nearer  heaven  than  Mount  Shasta,  more  symmet 
rical,  more  snowy,  its  fairy-like  peak,  glowing  warm  and  rosy 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  while  the  base  and  the  sides, 
half-way  up,  showed  but  dimly  through  a  blue  mist. 

Mrs.  Andrews  hustled  around,  securing  needful  articles  for 
our  journey;  then  I  found  myself  aboard  a  steamer  and  was 
assigned  a  room,  and  soon  the  day  and  the  night  were  lost  in 
the  nothingness  of  sleep. 

"Take  therefore  no  thought  of  tomorrow,  for  the  morrow  shall  take 
thought  for  the  things  of  itself." 

Crisp  waters,  fresh  winds!  A  half-glad,  half-fearful  feel 
ing  came  over  me  as  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  ship  the  next 
morning,  watching  the  prow  cut  the  gleaming  waters  like  a 
knife;  saw  it  roll  away  only  to  be  churned  into  foam  by  the 
wheels  which  sent  us  swiftly  on  and  on,  until  our  country  was 
left  behind  and  Alaskan  Territory  and  unknown  regions  lay 
beyond. 

How  very  soon  I  realized  the  futility  of  trying  to  write  all 
that  I  saw.  Something  must  be  written,  but,  oh,  how 
much  I  would  have  to  tell  in  the  days  to  come,  when  I  could 
nestle  down  with  my  head  on  my  husband's  lap.  There  would 
be  enough  for  years,  I  was  sure,  in  the  twelve  hundred  miles 


FROM   THE   WORLD  99 

of  wonderland,  of  fairyland  to  me,  the  broad  expanses  of 
the  purest,  clearest  shimmering  waters,  then  the  narrow  chan 
nels  and  straits.  There  were  abrupt  declivities  springing 
from  the  water's  edge  thousands  of  feet  high,  and  oh,  the 
inexpressible  beauty  of  the  dear  little  islands  that  dot  the 
waters  everywhere ! 

It  looks,  in  going  through  that  inland  passage,  as  if  when 
God  had  made  this  earth,  He  had  a  bit  left  on  His  hands 
and  had  shaken  it  off  broadcast  upon  the  waters, — just  little 
staccato-marks  to  accentuate  the  beauty,  the  harmony  of  the 
whole, — and,  looking  upon  it,  pronounced  it  good.  And  they 
bloom  and  blossom,  and  green  trees  and  velvety  sward  grow 
down  to  the  very  brim,  and,  forever  green  and  fair,  please  and 
delight  the  few  who  wander  up  there. 

The  second  morning  out,  1  was  astonished  to  find  a  note 
by  my  plate  at  breakfast.  The  superscription  read,  "For 
Alice."  Tearing  it  open,  I  read: 

"Good  morning,  darling!  I  kiss  you  from  this  cruel  dis 
tance;  but  this  will  reach  you  in  time  for  you  to  vaguely 
imagine  it  one  of  the  sweet  waking  kisses  that  we  two  know, 
the  nectar  that  has  inspired  our  lives.  My  darling,  my  own ! 
Mine  own  until  death!  Mine  by  all  the  laws  of  affinity! 
Would  that  I  could  tell  you  of  my  love.  It  seems  easier  to 
write  it ;  though  I  could  never  make  you  understand  how  you 
crept  into  my  heart,  how  I  resisted  temptation,  leaving  you 
with  that  first  kiss, — the  kiss  of  love  and  innocence  from 
your  trembling  lips.  Ah,  I  knew  without  the  telling,  of  your 
fresh  young  love.  I  forgot  all  else  but  you  for  the  moment, 
my  angel-eyed  Alice.  I  went  away,  but  your  dear,  tender 
eyes  following, — entreating  me  from  the  distance, — seemed 
to  come  into  my  very  soul,  pleading  for  me  to  return. 

"Then  fate  sent  you  to  me.  It  seems  like  a  dream,  a  dear 
sweet  dream  that  haunts  me  and  fills  me  with  dread  because 
of  the  unconquerable  love  that  has  sprung  up  in  my  heart  for 
you  in  the  brief  time  we  have  known  each  other.  Yet  how 
shall  love  be  gauged?  Not  by  time.  And  how  measured? 
Its  heights,  its  depths,  its  immensity  are  unknown,  unques 
tioned.  I  want  to  reassure  you,  to  make  you  understand,  if 
I,  with  a  nature  almost  coarse,  can  feel  when  you  are  reading 
this,  the  thrill  of  our  dear  love  which  will  abide  with  me, — 


ioo  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

you,  darling,  with  your  tender  sympathetic  nature,  will 
respond,  and  the  same  sweet  longings  will  fill  your  waking 
hours  and  be  reflected  in  your  sleep.  Kiss  me  in  your  dreams, 
and  I  shall  feel  your  soft  cheek  against  mine  and  the  inde 
scribable  magnetism  of  your  sweet  presence.  My  heart  is 
with  you.  YOUR  KING/' 

His  first  love  letter!  And  I  was  reading  it  while  speeding 
on  and  on,  amidst  the  most  beautiful  scenery  in  all  the  world, 
I  thought.  Ah,  how  bright  the  day  was,  and  happy  me ! 

I  ran  to  Mrs.  Andrews,  telling  her  of  the  miracle.  She  dis 
claimed  all  knowledge,  but  was  pleased  over  my  joy.  I  was 
happier  than  I  had  been  since  I  kissed  my  "King"  good-bye. 
Over  and  over  1  read  the  letter,  feasting  my  eyes  on  the 
words, — words  his  eyes  had  seen  and  his  pen  had  traced  while 
his  heart  prompted  the  loving  message.  Then  in  a  blissful 
reverie  I  watched  the  panorama  of  wonders  as  we  went  on. 
Metlakatla  and  its  neat  Indian  village,  where  we  purchased 
curios,  came  next.  Then  Fort  Wrangle,  beyond  which  we 
came  to  Seymour  Straits,  going  on  through  miles  of  the  most 
interesting  part  of  the  voyage. 

I  learned  that  our  steamer,  drawing  seventeen  feet  of 
water,  must  strike  the  full  tide  in  these  narrows,  else  it  would 
be  impossible  to  go  through.  A  vessel  drawing  five  or  six 
feet  could  not  pass  the  dangerous  sunken  reefs  at  half-tide. 
The  buoys  that  indicate  these  rocks  are  so  near  each  other 
that  the  vessel  barely  has  room  to  turn.  I  felt  no  fear  what 
ever,  though  there  were  some  timid  people  on  board,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  we  could  jump  ashore  if  necessary,  in  places.  I 
was  in  the  mood  to  wonder  and  admire,  for  the  world  was  a 
very  bright  and  beautiful  one  to  me. 

Emerging  from  these  narrows,  I  had  my  first  view  of  a 
glacier.  Very  white  and  beautiful  in  the  distance  it  looked, 
but  that  and  the  spouting  of  the  whales  soon  ceased  to  be  of 
interest,  as  numerous  white  specks  appeared  in  the  distant 
waters, —  "Icebergs!"  and  all  the  field-glasses  were  out. 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  we  were  among  them  !  Oh,  the  inde 
scribable  beauty  as  they  went  by!  No  sculptured  images,  no 
paintings,  no  words  can  do  them  justice !  Some  white  as 
snow,  others  clear  as  crystal,  and  in  their  depths  all  the  won 
drous  colors  of  the  sky, — the  green  translucent  depths  of  the 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


101 


ocean,  emerald  hues,  sapphires, — a  glint  of  flame,  and  the 
glory  of  them  grew  and  grew  upon  us  until  we  anchored  in 
front  of  the  Taku  Glacier,  with  the  waters  one  mass  of 
crushed  ice  and  those  huge  bergs  floating  rainbow-hued 
around  us.  One  slipped  by,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  On  the 
surface,  looking  up  to  the  heavens,  was  a  large  sphynx-like 
face.  Time,  the  wondrous  sculptor,  had  wrought  a  face 
perfect  in  shape  and  symmetry.  It  seemed  pitiful  that  it 


WYNDAM  GLACIER. 


should  drift  away  into  space  with  the  waters  dashing  over  the 
cold  still  face.  There  were  fairy  barges,  animals,  castles, — 
all  sorts  of  strange  things  to  be  seen  and  imagined, — as  those 
bergs  slid  away  and  out  of  sight. 

Here,  while  the  ship  took  in  ice  for  the  voyage,  we  watched 
the  Indians  catching  seals.  Clothed  in  white  garments,  with 
a  square  sail  stretched  in  front  of  the  prow  of  the  boat,  they 
moved  slowly  from  one  floe  of  ice  to  another,  scarcely  to  be 
seen  by  us  even  when  near.  The  seals  fall  easy  victims  and 
are  either  shot  or  speared  with  but  little  trouble. 


102  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

On  reaching  Juneau  I  found  two  letters  in  my  stateroom. 
1  could  not  understand  the  mystery.  There  were  no  rail 
roads, — we  were  on  the  fastest  steamer, — but  the  joy  of 
receiving  letters  drove  away  all  thought  of  how  they  came. 
I  was  in  an  enchanted  world, — all  things  were  possible.  I 
was  in  such  a  state  of  rapture  that  it  seemed  useless  to  specu 
late  on  the  present  or  the  future,  so  I  locked  my  door  and  read 
while  happy  tears  fell  from  my  eyes : 

"Darling  mine  !  I  know  you  will  want  the  kiss  I  send  with 
this, — know  the  need  you  feel  for  a  little  word  of  tenderness 
away  up  in  those  lonely  regions  of  ice  and  snow.  I  kiss  and 
love  you  with  all  the  tenderness  I  have.  God  knows  you 
deserve  more,  for  you  have  filled  my  waking  dreams,  my 
own,  my  life,  my  sweet,  my  all !  Love  has  come  so  soon  into 
your  young  life  that  you  cannot  realize  how  vacant  indeed 
are  the  lives  of  those  who  have  not  learned  to  love.  He  is 
indeed  unfortunate  who  has  not  the  happiness,  the  sweet 
content,  the  delightful  frenzy  of  love;  and  how  doubly  blessed 
is  he  who  possesses  the  perfect  love  of  a  girl  like  my  own, 
who  adds  the  element  of  perfect  content  to  my  less  tender 
affections, — yet  lends  by  her  charms  a  sweet  delirium  to  his 
passion.  And  now,  a  sweet  good  morrow,  darling,  my  heart's 
best  love.  Though  we  are  separated  by  many  miles,  and 
circumstances  may  combat  our  Love's  peaceful  realm  until  I 
see  you  again,  my  dreams  will  be  all  that  is  sweet  and  dear 
of  what  was  and  is  to  be.  A  kiss  for  Alice  in  Alaskaland. 

"My  little  girl  has  been  wondering  what  good  fairy 
has  given  her  the  messages,  and  as  this  is  the  last  stop 
ping  place  before  you  turn  your  dear  face  toward  the  south 
land  and  me,  I  will  confess.  I  know  the  captain  and  sent  him 
instructions  by  letter,  requesting  him  to  give  you  these  letters. 
I  knew  how  lonely  you  would  be,  and  thought  a  surprise 
would  please  you,  though  I  know  you  will  fully  appreciate 
the  wonderful  scenery  of  the  trip,  and  I  want  my  sweetheart 
to  enjoy  and  appreciate  all  she  will  see. 

"I  am  to  be  very  busy,  partly  for  others  and  partly  for  you, 
dear,  so  shall  try  to  be  patient  until  I  see  you  and  when  I  do, 
ah,  when  I  do,  mine  own,  remember,  no  expression  will  be  too 


FROM   THE   WORLD  103 

affectionate,  no  caress  too  gentle,  and  no  love  too  ecstatic  to 
bestow  upon  you.  I  cannot  conquer  my  feelings;  can  you? 
I  tried,  God  knows,  but  now  I  am  in  the  very  depths,  or 
rather,  lofty  heights  of  love, — in  with  that  wild  abandon, 
that  recognizes  no  rule  of  man  or  law,  which  even  now  grows 
uneasy  under  simple  policy. 

"I  write  this  that  you  may  ponder  over  it.  If  you  could 
know  how  sincere  have  been  my  efforts  to  keep  you  out  of 
my  mind  long  enough  to  formulate  plans  for  our  welfare,  you 
would  pity  me  I  know.  In  moments  of  your  solitude  you 
possibly  have  thought  me  lacking  in  the  warmth  your  deep 
sympathetic  nature  craves.  Yet  my  love  is  deep  and  sincere. 
It  was  born  in  admiration  and  matured  in  that  sweet  quality 
called  affinity.  I  shall  dream  of  you,  of  your  face  pillowed 
on  my  arm,  of  your  sweet  lips  pressed  close  to  mine,  and  of 
pulses  quickened  by  mysterious  sympathy, — and  of  all  that  is 
sanctified  by  love." 

So  the  secret  was  out  about  the  letters  !  And  I  realized  how 
more  than  thoughtful  he  had  been  to  write  these,  hurried  as 
I  knew  he  must  have  been,  and  how  dear  were  his  messages  of 
love !  Surely  no  girl  in  the  world  was  ever  so  blessed  in  the 
love  of  a  noble  man  as  I — Alice — whom  no  one  had  cared 
particularly  for. 

Then  I  thought  perhaps  the  fault  had  been  mine.  I  had 
never  cared  to  make  friends,  had  lived  within  myself;  my 
books,  my  music,  were  all  I  cared  for  until  I  had  met  my 
husband — my  master.  Why,  I  knew  now  that  I  had  loved 
him  from  the  moment  when  he  first  spoke  to  me  and  held  my 
hand  in  his  warm  clasp.  If  love  begets  love,  why  not  try  to 
win  others  and  to  be  more  lovable  myself.  So  I  reasoned,  yet 
knowing  in  my  heart  I  wanted  no  love,  no  friends,  no  com 
panionship,  save  his,  my  liege  lord, — my  all, — for  all  time 
and  eternity.  My  thoughts  were  only  happy  thoughts,  and 
the  scenery  was  enhanced  by  my  mental  condition.  I  was 
eager  to  see  Juneau,  the  metropolis  of  Alaska,  though  after  a 
brief  survey  I  did  not  care  very  much  for  the  place,  though 
it  is  prettily  situated.  We  visited  the  Indian  village  for  bas 
kets  and  curios,  but  my  woman's  curiosity  was  not  sufficient 


io4  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

to  overcome  the  overpowering  smells  with  which  the  houses 
and  inmates  are  cursed. 

I  preferred  the  fresh  air,  and  a  talk  with  a  woman  who  had 
spent  many  years  here,  whose  husband  was  prospecting  for 
a  mythical  gold  mine.  Her  life  was  hard,  but  hope  cheered 
her  on.  Ah  !  I  thought,  what  would  life  be  without  hope,  and 
I  gave  her  a  little  parcel,  telling  her  not  to  open  it  until  after 
I  had  gone.  There  was  money  enough  to  relieve  her  for  a 
time,  while  her  heart  fed  on  hope. 

Crossing  the  two-mile  stretch  of  water  that  lies  between 
some  mines  and  Juneau  we  witnessed  the  finest  sunset  of  the 
whole  journey.  I  saw  the  most  beautifully  colored  clouds 
in  the  sky  and  the  shimmer  of  distant  water,  far  distant  peaks 
and  nearer  ranges  of  hills,  all  bathed  in  a  golden  haze,  to  be 
seen  only,  I  thought,  in  lands  far  south  of  this.  The  peak 
towering  directly  above  Juneau,  with  its  gleaming  waterfalls 
and  gulches  filled  with  snow-patches  here  and  there  almost 
to  water's  edge;  the  verdure  also  faithfully  reproduced  in  the 
mirror-like  waters,  formed  a  strange  contrast,  all  the 
glory,  the  color,  light  and  shimmer  of  the  tropics  in  front, 
while  near  and  crowding  up  under  our  keel,  the  shadow  phan 
toms  of  a  winter  that  rests  forever  on  that  three  thousand 
foot  peak,  towering  up  so  grandly  above  us. 

Though  I  read  and  reread  my  letters,  I  was  inexpressibly 
lonely  that  last  evening  in  Juneau.  Wrapping  my  steamer 
robe  about  me,  I  sought  a  sheltered  nook  away  from  the  rest 
of  the  passengers.  I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  my  thoughts. 
The  stillness  of  the  night  lay  upon  the  waters  and  the  over 
hanging  cliffs, — the  hush  of  a  June  twilight  that  seemed 
unlike  any  other  I  had  ever  known.  An  opaline  light  that  had 
the  radiance  of  early  dawn,  mixed  and  intermingled  with 
the  glow  of  a  sunset  that  was  kissing  the  sweet  dawn  of  a 
new-born  day  was  around  me,  filling  my  soul  with  its  beauty 
and  strange  spell,  as  the  boat  steamed  slowly  away  from  the 
wharf  at  midnight. 

A  low  wailing  sound  that  w*ent  to  the  quick  of  my  heart 
came  to  me  from  the  shore,  burdened  with  the  very  soul  of 
misery  and  pain. 

"Oh!  What  is  it?"  I  asked  as  one  of  the  mates 
passed  me. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  105 

"Only  a  Siwash  Indian  woman  wailing  for  her  dead  hus 
band,"  he  answered. 

How  my  heart  ached  for  the  poor  desolate  creature.  Ah, 
me !  How  well  I  understood, — love  was  the  same  every 
where  !  It  is  the  same  through  all  ages.  Civilization  has  not 
made  or  marred  it.  I  had  read  of  Cleopatra's  stormy  love, 
and  I  knew  what  it  meant, — the  bible  story  of  Ruth  and  her 
love ! 

Back  to  my  mind  like  a  flash  came  the  unpleasant  memory 
of  the  Ruth  1  had  known,  which  stirred  me  to  bitter  recollec 
tions.  I  tried  to  forget,  to  shake  off  an  uncanny  feeling  that 
oppressed  me.  I  went  to  my  room  and  tried  to  forget  my  one 
hatred;  tried  to  stop  my  ears,  to  drive  out  the  sound  of  that 
mournful,  agonizing  wail  that  came  from  that  desolate 
widowed  savage  soul  away  up  here  in  the  wilds,  amid  the 
mountains  and  waste  of  waters  that  seemed  forgotten  by  God 
and  almost  unknown  to  man. 

Sleep  scarcely  touched  my  eyelids  ere  a  bright  and  sparkling 
day  shone  through  my  window.  I  arose  and  going  out  on 
deck  had  my  first  glimpse  of  the  Muir  Glacier  through  a  field- 
glass,  while  still  thirty-five  miles  distant. 

I  saw  a  misty,  frozen,  mighty  river  of  ice  as  it  stretched 
from  the  water's  edge  miles  and  miles  away,  a  luminous  haze 
arising  from  it,  intensified  by  the  dark  peaks  and  gorges 
guarding  it.  And  ever,  as  the  ship  sped  on,  it  grew  and  grew, 
into  wondrous  beauty,  culminating  in  a  grand  paean  of 
delight.  As  the  ship  slowly  floated  within  a  thousand  feet, 
perhaps,  directly  in  front  of  that  strange,  weird  wall, — a  sec 
tion  of  hundreds  of  feet  in  length  and  breadth,  slid  down  with 
the  roar  of  artillery  into  the  water,  dashing  the  spray  far  up 
on  the  walls  of  ice  and  causing  the  breakers  to  roll  on  the 
distant  beach. 

All  the  afternoon  we  were  treated  to  such  a  display  of 
falling  ice  as  is  seldom  seen  even  here.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
old  glacier  was  anticipating  and  giving  us  our  Fourth  of  July 
in  advance.  We  were  landed  on  the  moraine  in  small  boats, 
and  went  up  and  on  over  the  strange  treacherous  wonder.  We 
climbed  over  a  steep  hill  covered  with  pebbles,  but  digging 
into  it  an  inch  or  so,  we  found  only  ice  underneath — on 
and  on,  with  ever  those  sharp  detonations,  clear  as  the 


106  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ring  of  a  rifle-shot,  only  a  hundred-fold  greater!  A  roar,  a 
rush  of  water,  then  a  huge  form  shoots  high  in  the  air,  and 
we  know  another  iceberg  is  born.  The  bergs  are  not  so  beau 
tiful  as  at  T'aku;  more  dirt,  rock  and  debris  being  in  the  ice. 

The  utter  desolation  about  this  vast,  solemn,  moving  thing, 
the  immensity  of  it,  its  treacherous  crevasses  and  hidden 
dangers  were  appalling  to  me.  Unseen  forces  seemed  reach 
ing,  pulling,  drawing  me  toward  those  vast,  blue  crevasses; 
beckoning,  urging  me  toward  them.  I  turned  helplessly, 
uncertain,  afraid  to  move,  when  someone  took  my  arm.  A 
man  with  a  kind  face  whom  I  had  seen,  and  the  only  passen 
ger  with  whom  I  had  cared  to  talk,  led  me  away.  I  clung  to 
his  arm,  and  I  supposed  I  looked  my  gratitude,  for  he  said : 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  were  you  creeping  slowly  along 
toward  that  crevasse?  Did  you  not  know  it  was  dangerous? 
You  must,  for  you  are  white  and  trembling  now.  Stand  still 
a  moment,  close  your  eyes,  take  a  deep  breath  or  so  and  you 
will  feel  better." 

I  did  so. 

"Now  the  color  has  come  back  to  your  face,  and  now 
answer  my  question.  What  did  you  mean?"  almost  sternly. 
"Not  the  idea  of  self-destruction  and  eternal  misery?" 

"Oh,  no!"  I  cried;  "that  was  what  I  feared.  I  was  fas 
cinated  and  tried  to  get  away.  I  had  asked  Mrs.  Andrews  to 
leave  me  alone  for  a  few  moments.  She  is  there,"  I  said, 
pointing  to  where  she  sat,  a  short  distance  below  us. 

"I  saw  you  alone,  and  could  not  understand  how  they  could 
have  permitted  it,  so  left  the  others  and  came  to  you,  and, 
perhaps — "  here  a  faint  smile  illumined  his  features— -"I  too 
was  impelled  to  come  by  a  higher  power  than  that  which  was 
pulling  you  down  into  an  icy  unknown  grave." 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  "do  not  speak  of  it.  Do  you  think  that  it 
means  that  death  was  beckoning  me,  was  pulling  me 
down  into  that  icy  horror,  and  just  now,  when  I  have  so  much 
to  live  for.  Why,  I  couldn't  die  just  now.  I  have  only  been 
living  two  or  three  months!" 

"I  knew  you  were  young,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that 
it  was  a  question  of  a  month  or  two."  Again  he  smiled,  but 
it  was  a  kindly  re-assuring  smile. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  107 

"You  do  not  understand,"  I  said,  "I  am  past  seventeen, 
but  never  knew  what  life  meant,  or  cared  for  it  very  much 
until  recently.  Now  I  have  every  desire  to  live, — and  live 
a  long  life, — for  I  am  very  happy." 

"I  trust  you  may  be  so  all  your  life.  Try  to  live  so  you 
may  have  no  cause  for  regrets.  Now,  here  is  your  friend, 
you  had  better  go  down  to  the  boats  at  once,"  and  he  left  me. 

"Let  us  go  down,  Mrs.  Andrews,  quickly,"  I  said;  "I  am 
so  tired." 

"You  do  seem  rather  shaky.  Who  is  the  man  you  were 
talking  to?  He  looked  like  a  minister." 

"I  do  not  know,  he  kindly  helped  me  over  some  very  rough 
places."  1  could  not  tell  her  my  strange  experience,  so  we 
went  on  in  silence. 

Back  again  to  the  steamer,  with  my  eyes  on  the  wonderful 
wall,  snow-white,  save  where  the  new  ice  shows  fresh  after 
the  falling  bergs,  and  then  the  intense  blue,  the  tints  that 
range  through  all  the  greens  and  blues  of  the  painter's 
palette!  The  glory  of  turret,  dome  and  tower;  the  strange 
sculptured  forms,  the  vastness,  the  terror  of  it  all,  especially 
on  board  the  ship  with  that  terrible  wall  of  ice  seemingly  so 
near!  A  single  section,  larger  than  usual,  an  uprising  of  ice 
from  those  terrible  depths, — and  utter  destruction  of  all 
would  be  the  result. 

And  soon,  with  a  last  look,  1  turned  my  face  away,  looking 
southward,  while  my  heart  was  beating  with  joy  as  the  boat 
slowly  turned  and  left  that  mighty  wall  of  ice,  breathing  a 
prayer  of  thankfulness  that  I  had  been  permitted  to  gaze 
upon  this,  one  of  the  most  inspiring  sights  of  the  world,  and 
more  than  glad  to  be  safe  from  its  terrible,  strange  mysterious 
influences. 

A  night's  rest  restored  my  nerves,  and  at  the  Kootznahoo 
fishing  banks  the  next  morning  I  had  my  first  experience  in 
fishing, — as  interested  in  the  sport  as  if  there  were  no  glaciers 
in  existence. 

My  excitement  knew  no  bounds  when  I  brought  to  the  sur 
face  a  halibut  weighing  sixty  pounds,  and  later  a  red-snap 
per  by  chance, — the  largest  of  the  kind  caught,  which  the 
captain  by  special  order  had  served  at  our  table.  It  was  so 
large  that  after  thirteen  of  us  had  eaten,  it  scarcely  showed 


loS  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

mutilation.     I  was  so  pleased  and  delighted  over  my  success 
that  I  scarcely  felt  the  blisters  on  my  hands. 

Leaving  there,  we  paused  a  short  time  at  Kilisnoo,  then 
sailed  directly  to  Sitka. 

I  was  interested  in  the  Indian  Mission;  the  natives  showed 
the  good  work  of  the  missionaries.  They  appeared  neat  and 
clean  under  the  influence  of  education.  At  the  museum 
there  were  some  terrible  instruments  of  torture.  A  branch 
of  a  shrub  covered  with  poisonous  thorns  was  shown  us.  They 
used  to  beat  their  witches  to  death  with  these.  I  afterwards 
secured  a  small  branch.  It  was  more  to  me  than  Indian  bas 
kets  or  curios,  for  it  told  of  horror  and  ignorance  — of  unut 
terable  agony  and  torture,  and  always  the  face  of  some  poor 
old  woman  loomed  up  from  the  benighted  past,  and  the  piti 
ful  fear  of  it  made  me  say,  reverently,  "Thank  God  for  those 
dear  missionaries  and  their  work!" 

Sitka  is  called  the  Naples  of  America,  and  is  so  beautiful 
that  I  felt  I  must,  some  day,  see  the  other  Naples,  lying  close 
under  the  shadows  of  the  treacherous  Vesuvius.  The  chan 
nels  are  filled  with  islands,  large  and  small.  Mount  Edge- 
comb,  in  the  near  distance,  unlike  the  volcano,  wafting  its 
hot  breath  over  Pompeii,  has  its  extinct  crater  filled  with 
snow. 

The  waters  are  wonderfully  transparent,  and  far  down  in 
their  icy  depths  I  saw  starfish  and  sea-anemones.  The  great 
charm  of  these  waters  is  not  the  wonderful  blue, — but  the 
idea  of  a  vast,  almost  unknown  region,  stretching  westward. 

Sitka  has  the  charm  of  age  and  mystery.  It  is  a  clean  and 
neat  little  town.  The  walks  in  the  vicinity  are  beautiful,  and 
the  days  were  perfect;  unusually  so.  One  evening  I  stood 
with  an  officer  at  the  marine  station,  who  signaled  the  lower 
ing  of  the  flag  at  ten  o'clock,  and  the  sound  of  the  sunset  gun 
echoed  back  from  the  surrounding  hills. 

And  then  in  the  golden  glory  of  another  afternoon  we 
floated  away  through  the  most  witching  scenery  of  Pearl 
Straits,  on  and  on,  in  the  glorious  day  following,  and  in  the 
soft  twilight  that  came  after  the  bright  days. 

There  has  been  only  twilights  further  north ;  where  we  had 
eaten  midnight  suppers  when  it  was  light  enough  to  read,  but 
now  each  day  gave  way,  little  by  little,  to  the  nights,  which 


FROM   THE   WORLD  109 

became  more  sombre  and  assertive,  more  conducive  to  dreams. 
But  it  was  as  if  in  some  dream,  for  it  was  fanciful  and  unreal 
enough, — that  we  steamed  on  amid  the  grandeur  of  moun 
tains,  of  islands,  and  peaks  snow-drifted  that  were  seemingly 
adrift  on  a  sea  of  mist,  which  I  appreciated,  while  longing 
for  land,  and — more  than  all  else — letters,  the  expected  after 
the  unexpected. 

Tacoma  was  reached,  and  I  hurried  Mrs.  Andrews  away 
before  she  had  time  to  ask  for  a  room,  for  the  longed-for 
letters, 

"Go  quickly;  I  will  wait  here  in  the  reception-room  until 
you  return,"  I  pleaded. 

She  humored  me,  and  I  waited  so  restlessly  I  could  not  sit 
still.  I  went  to  the  window,  watching  the  hurrying  throng 
and  wondered  why  I  was  so  stupid  that  I  did  not  go  with  her; 
when  instead  of  waiting  I  could  have  held  them  in  my 
hands, — his  letters.  It  would  not  have  been  half  so  bad  as 
this  uncertainty.  I  would  have  known  at  once.  Impatiently 
I  beat  my  fingers  against  the  glass ;  then  I  seemed  to  hear  a 
voice  whispering: 

"Waiting  for  letters?" 

Startled,  I  turned  quickly,  and  my  darling,  my  love,  my 
life,  stood  before  me.  In  an  instant  I  was  sobbing  out  my 
great  longings,  and  the  hurt  of  absence  in  my  husband's 
arms. 

"Here,  girlie,  straighten  up;  don't  cry!  Why  don't  you 
laugh?  We  are  in  a  public  room,  you  know.  I  did  not  mean 
to  startle  you  so.  I  expected  to  come  to  you  when  you  were 
safe  in  your  room,  but  I  met  Mrs.  Andrews  down  the  street. 
She  told  me  of  your  impatience  and  that  you  were  here,  and 
I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  coming  at  once." 

"Oh !  How  good  you  are  to  come.  I  did  not  dream  of  it, 
and  was  so  unhappy  because  I  could  not  go  directly  to  Cali 
fornia  and  you.  I  think  I  would  have  gone.  I  meant  to 
persuade  Mrs.  Andrews  to  take  me  home  at  once.  I  have 
been  up  there  where  it  is  so  cold.  I  wanted  the  warm  skies 
at  home,  and  you.  It  has  been  so  long,"  I  pleaded.  "But  I 
have  enjoyed  it  more  than  I  thought  possible,  with  you  so 
far  away,"  I  added,  lest  he  should  think  I  had  not  cared  for 
the  trip. 


no  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"I  am  sure  you  have  enjoyed  the  long  absence  fully  as  much 
as  I  have,  though  it  is  not  so  very  long, — hardly  three  weeks," 
he  said. 

"Yet  a  whole  lifetime  seems  crowded  into  these  three 
weeks.  But  here  comes  the  letter-carrier,"  as  Mrs.  Andrews 
came  in,  smiling. 

"All  a  cheat,"  she  said,  "depriving  the  Government  of  its 
rightful  postage.  1  have  nothing,  and  there  is  your  letter," 
pointing  to  my  husband. 

I  laughed  and  said  I  would  gladly  pay  the  postage  on  so 
precious  a  parcel. 

So,  jesting  and  laughing  in  my  unexpected  joy,  we  went  to 
our  rooms,  which  were  already  provided  for  us,  for  the  lug 
gage  was  there  and  the  wily  Mrs.  Andrews  had  arranged  my 
belongings.  And  then  we  were  left  alone. 


XII 

"Ah !     Sorrow  is  a  potent  enchantress  and  once  she  touches  the  heart, 
life  can  never  be  the  same  again." 

I,  who  knew  them  so  well,  remembered  when  Bert  Wilder 
met  Ruth  Carrington  at  the  home  of  a  mutual  friend  on  a  fair 
summer  day,  and  observed  that  from  the  first  meeting  there 
was  a  mutual  attraction  and  each  seemed  to  have  no  thought 
for  others,  if  only  they  could  be  together.  Their  souls  seemed 
to  go  out  to  each  other  at  the  moment  of  their  first  meeting. 
They  were  drawn  together  by  that  unseen,  invisible  influence 
that  is  stronger,  more  lasting  than  most  things  tangible, — for 
it  is  as  tenacious  and  enduring  as  life  itself,  and  the  mystic 
something  that  will  endure,  some  of  us  hope  even  beyond  life 
itself. 

Bert  Wilder's  wooing  was  impetuous  like  himself.  He  was 
not  satisfied  a  moment  away  from  her.  When  it  was  not 
possible  to  see  her  he  sent  notes. 

In  her  happiness  and  shy  sweet  love  she  sent  extracts  to  me 
and  some  of  the  letters  were  given  me  to  keep  later  on.  They 
ran  in  this  style : 

I     want     you     dear!      My     heart 

has  no  room  for  another.  My  arms  ache  with  emptiness 
and  are  held  your  way.  Come  to  me,  that  I  may  hold  you 
to  my  heart  and  feel  the  sweet  June  of  your  lips  pressed  to 
mine,  for  you  remind  me  of  all  the  fair  sweet  things  in  nature. 
You  are  my  inspiration,  my  motive,  my  guiding  star;  my 
omnipotence,  my  love !  The  time  is  near  when  I  shall  come 
and  feast  my  hungry  heart  from  your  dear  eyes;  when  my 
caresses  will  soothe  the  bruises  of  my  absence. 

"With  every  faculty  I  want  you,  through  the  day  time, 
with  the  last  consciousness  of  sleep,  in  dreams,  with  the  first 
bird  twitter  of  early  morn,  my  flesh  and  mind  and  soul  are 
craving  your  touch,  your  welcoming  words,  the  illumination 
of  your  love-lit  eyes,  the  indescribable  joy  of  your  presence 
and  the  absorbing  rapture  that  my  own  Ruthie  alone  can 
bring  me." 


ii2  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

uMy  darling  girl: — The  mills  of  fate  seem  to  grind  for 
me  only  the  grist  of  disappointment,  for  I  am  called  away 
and  must  go  without  seeing  you.  God,  how  lonely  it  is  with 
out  you  !  I  have  been  so  busy  this  week,  and  also  away  where 
there  was  no  chance  to  write.  But  with  my  unavoidable  and 
almost  brutal  neglect,  was  unreasonable  enough  to  expect 
a  word  from  you  today,  and  the  dreadful  fear  came  to  me 
that  'maybe  she  is  ceasing  to  care.' 

"It  took  me  an  hour  before  I  thought  perhaps  my  darling 
may  be  applying  the  same  kind  of  logic  to  me.  It  is  an  awful 
long  way  to  you,  sweet  one,  so  far  that  sometimes  I  look  out 
from  the  hades  of  solitude,  and  almost  imagine  my  own  in  an 
unattainable  heaven,  happy  with  other  angels,  and  perhaps  a 
rival  or  two. 

"How  bitterly  I  curse  the  delay,  these  days  of  unrest  that 
keep  me  from  you.  At  least  these  conditions  will  envalue 
the  meetings  to  come  and  will  teach  me  the  blessedness  of  my 
darling  one.  Will  teach  me  I  am  right  when  I  re-affirm  my 
love.  Will  teach  me  new  reasons  for  the  truth  of  the  feeble 
words  of  love  that  I  have  tried  to  fitly  bestow  upon  her  who 
alone  is  entitled  to  them. 

"My  idol,  my  darling,  my  Ruth,  my  all!  Take  me  into 
your  tender  heart  today  and  let  me  warm  it  with  a  love  that  is 
undying." 


"My  Own:  Yours  of  yesterday  instructing  me  that  you 
were  going  somewhere  writh  somebody,  for  sometime  unmen- 
tioned,  reached  me  today.  You  are  a  sweet  and  dutiful  girl 
to  ask  my  consent,  and  my  only  wonder  is  that  you  did  not 
intensify  your  interest  in  my  advice  by  going  before  you 
asked  it. 

"There,  sweetheart,  quiet  the  little  bit  of  rebellion  that  the 
above  has  excited.  I  am  only  getting  even  with  your  little 
pleasantry.  How  I  would  like  to  be  there  when  you  read 
this,  to  kiss  away  the  sweet  pout  that  just  now  is  showing  as 
your  dear  eyes  read. 

"Ah,  my  love !  Though  I  shall  be  very  busy  during  your 
absence,  I  will  speculate  upon  its  duration — many  will  be  the 
times  that  my  mind  will  wander  from  its  subject  to  its  object; 


FROM   THE   WORLD  113 

and  in  day  dreams  try,  try  hard  to  picture  its  idol's  abiding 
place,  and  how  she  is  enjoying  herself. 

"Sometimes  in  fancy  I  shall  see  her  wandering  through 
pine-scented  woods,  or  resting  beneath  some  grand,  old 
monarch  of  the  forest,  influenced,  awed  but  soothed  by  the 
magnificence  of  nature,  and  then,  mayhap,  I  will  dream  we 
are  together  and  I,  smoothing  her  beautiful  hair  with  the 
tenderest  of  touches  until — still  in  fancy — I  see  her  fall  asleep 
while  I  watch,  drinking  sweet  draughts  of  love,  until  she 
awakes;  and  I  murmuring  as  I  do  in  reality:  God  bless  her! 
God  bless  her!" 


"So,  my  sanctuary  of  sweets,  you  purpose  giving  me  a  kiss 
for  every  word  in  letters  that  I  carry  to  the  train !  Be  care 
ful  with  such  rash  promises.  I'll  be  spending  my  days  in 
writing  and  running  to  catch  trains  and  the  rest  of  the  time 
computing  the  number  of  kisses  I  am  to  receive. 

"You  seem  happy  in  the  haven  your  heart  has  found. 
Happy  haven,  happy  heart !  Time  shall  not  tear  it  away  nor 
vicissitudes  alter  its  security,  if  it  lies  quiet  in  the  calm  of 
placid  love,  or  turbulent  in  the  delight  of  active  passion.  Be 
sure  of  rest  and  response,  and  always  a  sympathy  to  its  every 
beat. 

"And  now  I  shall  say  good  night,  thinking  of  the  sweet 
delirium  of  our  united  lips." 

"How  long  would  you   love  me — a  lifetime? 

Ah  !  that  is  too  long — let  us  say 
A  moment.     Life's  best's  but  a  moment, 

And  life  itself  scarcely  a  day." 

But  dear,  sweet  little  Ruth  did  not  know  these  lines,  or  if 
so,  would  not  in  her  trusting  heart  have  harbored  for  an 
instant  the  idea  that  Bert's  love,  so  sweet  to  her  in  its  new 
ness,  and  so  strong  in  expression,  from  him  whom  her  heart 
adored  in  all  the  strength  and  purity  of  a  first  love,  whose 
heart  had  responded  to  no  other  soul  until  he,  the  ideal  of  her 
young  dreams  came  to  claim  his  own,  could  change. 

And  one  fair,  sweet  day  they  were  married  and  he,  tri 
umphant,  exulting,  carried  her  away  to  Monterey,  where  in  a 
cozy  retreat,  overlooking  the  peaceful  Pacific,  they  began 
the  new  life  of  oneness  as  she  fondly  believed.  So  beneath 


n4  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

the  whispering  trees  they  breathed  the  air  that  stole  the  odors 
from  the  unconscious  flowers  which  seemed  to  bloom  for 
them. 

The  fulness  of  the  late  summer  was  about  them,  a  soft, 
blue  haze  hung  over  the  wide  stretch  of  ocean  visible  from 
their  retreat.  The  waters  surged  up  lazily  among  the  rocks, 
and  the  kelp  that  grew  in  strength  and  thickness  resisted  the 
fierce  waves.  So  they  came  up  languidly  on  the  sloping  beach 
far  below  them  in  soothing  murmurs. 

"My  life  will  be  like  that,"  said  Ruth,  one  day. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Bert. 

"You  are  to  me  what  that  submarine  forest  is  out  there  in 
the  waste  of  waters.  The  worry  and  troubles  of  life  will  be 
warded  off  by  your  strength  and  firmness.  I  shall  be  safe 
within  the  shelter  of  your  arms,  and  I  shall  have  no  fear  of 
future  storms." 

Why,  at  the  very  height  of  love's  glamor  and  the  culmina 
tion  of  realized  hopes  with  her  husband,  all  love,  all  tender 
ness,  should  there  arise  in  her  mind,  a  thought  of  future 
storms,  when  a  strength  beyond  hers  would  be  needed.  It 
was  vague,  uncertain,  like\  the  fleeting  shadows  of  some 
bird  passing  for  the  moment  over  her,  forgotten  in  the  instant, 
as  they  two,  with  clasped  hands,  watched  the  rose-clouds  in 
the  gleaming  West  fade  into  soft  pearl  tints. 

Then  they  turned  their  faces  eastward  and  through  the 
tall  trees  saw  the  reddish-yellow  moon  burnishing  the  woods. 

A  cool  wind  sprang  up  as  the  sun  disappeared.  A  breath 
of  autumn  was  in  the  evening  breeze  and  a  few  leaves  tinged 
with  yellow  fell  as  the  rising  wind  rustled  through  the  heavy 
summer  foliage.  There  was  a  shrill  reiteration  of  the  cicada 
that  sounded  drearily  above  the  tumult  of  sound.  The  voices 
of  the  dying  summer  were  in  Ruth's  ears.  She  caught  her 
breath. 

"It  will  soon  be  over,"  she  sighed.  "The  warm  palpitat 
ing  summer  here  in  the  mountains.  The  beautiful  flowers 
and  luxuriant  growth  will  feel  the  chill  of  the  winter.  And 
we,  too,  must  leave  with  the  summer,  and  I  ?  Well,  at  least 
1  shall  have  something  to  remember.  These  heavenly  days 
up  here  away  from  all  the  world  with  no  thought  save  for 
each  other.  Surely  my  heart  and  my  hands  have  touched 


FROM   THE   WORLD  115 

heaven  on  these  high  hills,  and  a  little  bit  of  the  joy  known 
and  felt  here  must  be  my  inheritance.  There  can  be  no  low 
hanging  boughs  of  life,  however  intricate,  that  may  meet 
above  my  head  that  cannot  be  brushed  aside,  or  dim  the  joy 
of  these  days." 

Their  home  seemed  an  ideal  one.  Bert  was  handsome  and 
brilliant.  He  was  a  successful  man,  easy  in  his  manners  and 
a  thorough  man  of  the  world,  and  was  popular  with  both 
sexes. 

Ruth  was  more  than  kind  and  gracious  to  all  who  came  to 
their  home.  There  were  no  regrets,  no  doubts  in  her  life; 
only  peace,  contentment,  and  love.  A  love  that  was  silent 
and  sweet  with  a  perpetual  incense  that  burned  upon  the  altar 
where  she  was  wont  to  kneel  and  pray.  But  the  image  she 
worshipped,  the  ikon  of  her  admiration  was  Bert's  picture 
given  her  before  their  marriage. 

Theirs  was  a  hospitable  home  and  visitors  were  charmed 
by  the  warm,  delightful  welcome  of  the  charming  hostess  and 
the  frank,  genial  Bert  who  was  proud  of  his  wife  and  his 
home. 

After  a  time,  Ruth's  face  lost  its  freshness.  She  looked 
Ifke  a  frail  white  lily,  and  she  lost  interest  in  theatres  and 
outside  amusements.  Bert  was  seen  now  and  then  at  his 
club  and  occasionally  at  some  reception  or  opera  without  his 
wife.  To  any  inquiry  he  would  say  she  was  not  equal  to  it 
or  had  a  headache  and  desired  to  be  quiet. 

Then  one  day  her  friends  learned  that  the  little  babe  which 
she  had  so  longed  for  was  born,  and  the  next  day  its  little 
form  lay  cold  in  death. 

It  was  weeks  before  she  had  strength  to  receive  anyone; 
and  it  was  before  the  little  one  died  that  a  mutual  friend  had 
written  the  news  to  Edith  Hammond  of  Ruth's  baby,  and 
she  had  not  heard  of  its  death.  Ruth  had  not  the  courage  to 
write  of  her  bereavement  and  even  to  her  most  intimate 
friends  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  discuss  it.  Her  sorrow 
was  her  own  and  too  sacred  for  others. 

She  was  pale  and  wan,  only  the  shadow  of  her  former  self 
and  Bert,  who  loved  life  and  gaiety,  grew  strangely  restless. 
He  could  not  understand  her  regret  and  longing,  her  heart- 
hunger  for  the  dead  child.  He  had  only  seen  it  for  a  moment 


n6  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

before  its  little  life  went  out,  and  could  not  in  his  strong 
nature  understand  the  mother's  heart. 

Often  while  he  slept  the  sound  sleep  of  exhaustion  after 
an  evening  spent  at  the  opera  or  some  social  function,  she 
would  sit  far  in  the  night,  and  watch  the  gleaming  path  of  the 
moon  on  the  distant  ocean,  until  the  dawn  glided  over  the 
great  waste  of  waters,  her  heart,  her  soul,  filled  with  a  sor 
row  she  knew  only  too  well,  was  not  shared  by  him  she  loved 
with  all  the  strength  of  her  being.  For  when  the  shaft  of 
woe  struck  her  heart,  she  turned  all  the  more  to  him,  the 
father  of  her  dead  child,  the  lover  and  husband. 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  as  time  healed  her  sorrow  and 
health  returned,  she  began  to  wonder  why  her  husband 
never  asked  her  to  go  out  with  him,  not  even  for  a  walk  or 
drive.  He  seemed  so  engrossed  in  business  which  detained 
him  often  of  evenings.  Sometimes  there  were  trips  to  the 
country,  or  a  jaunt  with  "some  fellows,  you  know,"  always 
plausible  excuses,  but  never  once  was  she  invited  to  go  with 
him.  Her  pride  would  not  allow  her  to  ask,  so  she  bravely 
waited  with  a  sore  heart  until  he  should  remember. 

That  his  love  had  waned  had  never  crossed  her  mind.  But 
that  he  was  worried  she  knew,  for  he  was  restless  and  would 
arise  in  the  night  and  walk  back  and  forth  until  it  seemed 
her  tortured  nerves  could  not  endure  the  strain.  And  if  she 
timidly  questioned  or  tried  to  caress  him,  hoping  for  a  return 
of  the  harmony  and  companionship,  he  would  simply  say: 

"You  do  not  understand  and  I  cannot  tell  you  now.  Please 
do  not  worry  me." 

And  she  would  shrink  away  hurt  and  wondering,  yet 
patient,  sweet  and  uncomplaining  in  all  his  moods. 

It  was  long  afterwards  that  I  knew  the  whole  story.  Her 
sorrow  and  grief  would  have  driven  many  women  mad  or  to 
some  terrible  revenge. 

I  will  endeavor  to  write  down  as  I  learned  from  her  letters 
or  heard  her  pitiful  stories  from  her  trembling  lips  from 
time  to  time  long  afterwards. 


XIII 

"Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh  night-dreams  like  a 
taunting  fiend  whispering,  'Be  satisfied;  keep  your  heart  from  running 
over,  bridle  those  affections;  there  is  nothing  worth  loving?" 

EXTRACTS  FROM  FRED  MARSHALL'S  DIARY 

Because  I  can  dissemble  and  make  Frank  think  I  am 
engrossed  in  our  travels  I  am  at  war  with  myself  because  I 
cannot  forget.  I  try  to  forget,  heaven  knows.  Talk  and 
while  away  the  time  as  best  I  can  with  these  dark-eyed  seno- 
ritas  but  ever  and  always  I  see  her.  I  recall  her  fair  face,  the 
beautiful,  expressive  eyes,  that,  looking  into  mine,  sent  the 
blood  chasing  in  riotous  thrills  through  my  veins,  filling  my 
whole  soul  with  a  strange  sweetness. 

She  was  like  the  fresh  blossoms  on  the  slopes  above  the 
sea  where  we  sat  on  that  last  day,  when  the  very  air  was  intoxi 
cating  with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  the  music  of  birds  that 
came  in  ripples  and  cascades  of  song,  and  above  us  the  sap 
phire  heavens  and  the  blue  gulfs  of  air  with  foamy,  fleecy 
clouds  bounding  them — vast  fleeting  shadows  chasing  each 
other  over  the  ocean  that  stretched  away  to  the  horizon's  rim, 
smooth  and  beautiful  as  I  thought  our  life  would  be. 

That  day  is  painted  upon  my  memory  in  unfading  colors. 
The  sunbeams  made  a  broad  way  of  blinding  light  upon  the 
waters.  I  seem  to  feel  once  more  the  fresh  winds  that  came 
in  gusts  tossing  her  beautiful  yellow  hair  about  her  sweet  face 
in  wanton  glee.  1  hear  again  the  faint  sound  of  the  breakers 
that  dashed  upon  the  glittering  sands  so  far  below  us,  coming 
up  in  an  undertone  of  soothing  restfulness.  The  perfume 
from  the  lupins  abides  with  me  yet,  as  even  now  do  I  feel  the 
warmth  of  her  kisses  and  hear  her  voice  in  soft  whispers 
repeating: 

"I  love  you — love  you,  dear,  and  shall  forever!" 

She  was  the  enchantress  that  changed  the  drowsy  old  earth 
for  me  and  made  it  take  on  a  new  life, — a  life  that  glorified 

117 


n8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

all  things,  that  put  new  words  in  my  mouth,  and  made  all 
my  vainest  dreams  seem  possible.  She  was  my  lark  by  day 
and  my  nightingale  at  eventide, — sweet,  refreshing  and 
inspiring. 

That  last  day  was  one  I  shall  love  to  recall  while  I  have 
life  and  recollection. 

And  at  the  close,  we  drove  homeward  through  the  aro 
matic  groves  of  acacia  and  eucalyptus  trees  from  the  ocean 
boulevard,  over  perfect  roads  and  over  the  hills  on  that 
December  day  which  was  delicious  with  the  odors  of  flowers 
and  riotous  vines  that  grow  and  blossom  even  down  to  the 
water's  edge — homeward  through  that  dream  of  a  park 
reaching  out  to  the  Golden  Gate,  which  knows  no  winter  in 
all  its  blossoming  beauty — back  in  the  gloaming  to  the  city's 
glare  and  noise.  The  farewell,  the  last  clasp  of  her  soft 
hands  filled  me  with  a  rapture  so  ecstatic  that,  in  a  measure, 
it  pained. 

And  now  that  the  past  is  only  a  memory  I  want  nothing 
so  much  as  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand,  a  draught  of  oblivion 
from  Lethe  that  would  steep  my  senses  into  forgetfulness  of 
her  whom  my  soul  loved,  loves  yet,  even  to  my  peril. 

This  Persephone  who  lured  me,  charmed  me  into  worship 
ping  her  with  my  whole  soul,  was  like  the  freshness  of  the 
dewdrops  in  the  balmy  mornings,  sparkling  and  bright. 

All  the  sweet,  pure  things  in  nature  remind  me  of  her. 
The  breath  of  the  wild  roses  was  sweet  like  her  own,  fair 
self.  The  yellow  tasseled  corn  was  like  her  hair,  the  blue  of 
heaven  shone  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  were 
like  apple  blossoms  in  their  delicate  tints. 

What  a  flood  of  tenderness  overwhelms  me  when  I  think 
of  you,  who  are  my  morning  star,  my  heartsease,  my  blessing. 

I  cry  "pazienza"  and  wonder  if  I  can  be  reconciled  to  my 
life  without  you;  if  ever  again  the  old  buoyant  life  can  come 
to  me  again — the  life  I  knew  and  loved  when  we  talked  and 
laughed  with  the  sheer  bliss  of  being  alive  and  together, 
when  all  the  world  was  sweet  and  there  seemed  no  sin  or 
sorrow  but  a  beautiful  world  of  God's  creation,  wherein  we 
two  lived,  loved  and  enjoyed  each  day  in  the  bliss  of  perfect 
trust  and  sinless  happiness. 


FROM    THE   WORLD  119 

And  now  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart  I  know  that  the 
paradise  lost  for  me  was  the  veriest  fool's  paradise  that  ever 
existed  in  a  man's  brain  or  heart — that  she,  with  only  a 
written  word  or  two  could  say  there  was  to  be  nothing  more 
in  the  future  for  us,  save  the  fact  that  our  little  farce  was 
ended,  and  that  we  two,  if  we  ever  met  would  meet  only  as 
friends.  That  it  was  utterly  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  see 
her,  for  never  with  her  own  free  will  would  she  see  me  again. 
And  though  I  tried  vainly  to  see  her,  calling  often  only  to  be 
told  she  was  not  at  home,  and  learning  at  last  that  she  had 
gone  away  with  a  party  of  friends  and  that  Henry  Hutton, 
a  man  whom  I  knew  for  months  had  loved  her — but  in  vain, 
as  I  in  my  blindness  thought,  was  to  be  with  her  on  the 
journey. 

It  seems  I  shall  go  mad  grieving  over  this  great  sorrow 
that  will  not  be  cast  aside,  that  is  with  me  in  all  my  waking 
hours  and  oppresses  me  even  in  my  dreams.  The  strange 
ness  of  it  all.  Her  inexplicable  conduct.  Surely  it  could  be 
nothing  but  treachery  on  her  part.  For  I  know  there  was 
nothing  in  my  life,  no  word  or  action  of  mine  that  could  have 
reached  her  even  by  malice  that  would  have  made  her  believe 
me  false  or  untrue  to  her  for  an  instant. 

And  so  my  thoughts  run  on  and  on,  try  as  I  may,  to  evade 
my  sorrows.  I  find  that  I  am  only  treading  a  circular  path, 
and  there  seems  no  prospect  of  oblivion.  I  can  only  hope 
for  time  to  ease  my  heart,  to  wear  away  even  if  ever  so 
little  the  hurt  she  has  given  me.  To  wait  as  best  I  may  for 
hope  is  not  dead.  It  burns  faintly  within  me;  and  I  think 
that  love  like  mine  will  yet  compel  some  return.  If  nothing 
in  nature  is  wasted,  then  surely  my  thoughts,  my  heartaches 
and  passionate  longings  cannot  be  for  naught. 

Yet  unseeing,  unknowing,  I  turn  the  leaves  of  my  life  with 
eager  impatient  hands  so  slow  seem  the  dull  pages  as  I 
read — as  I  live  them — for  my  thoughts  fly  ahead  of  the  hours, 
the  days,  wherein  I  con  my  daily  lesson,  and  I  long  to  thrust 
them  aside  and  have  this  waiting  ended. 

This  love  that  is  at  full  tide  in  my  heart  and  beating  up 
in  an  unbounded  fulness,  is  so  great,  I  know  it  cannot  be 
endured  much  longer.  The  very  strength  of  it  must  com 
mand  some  return  or  it  shall  yet  master  me. 


120  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

But  until  I  know — know  beyond  all  doubt  that  she  loves 
me  no  longer — I  shall  wait.  When  she  tells  me  with  her  own 
lips  that  she  scorns  my  love,  then,  indeed,  I  am  ready  for 
the  grass  to  grow  over  me. 


XIV 

"Arcadia  is  after  all  a  lotus-eating  paradise  of  blissful  ignorance." 

I  have  been  prowling  about  the  old  city,  Jack,  while  Fred 
has  been,  or  pretending  to  be,  busy  with  his  palette  and  paint 
boxes.  But  true  to  my  promise  I  will  write  you  concerning 
the  thing  I  am  most  interested  in.  One  little  excursion  to 
one  of  the  suburbs  I  must  especially  not  forget. 

Some  distance  from  the  city,  out  on  the  road  to  Tacubaya, 
which  in  the  Aztec  days  was  called  Tlacopan,  and  was  the 
residence  of  their  kings  in  1430,  I  entered  an  enclosure  one 
day,  under  an  archway,  on  which  was  the  American  eagle. 
It  was  holy  ground,  for  it  was  a  cemetery  belonging  to  our 
government.  A  high  stone  wall  surrounds  a  bare  acre  or 
two.  No  green  grass  or  flowers  were  there.  It  looked  piti 
ful  enough  after  visiting  another  cemetery  which  was  beauti 
fully  kept.  But,  desolate  as  it  looked,  my  countrymen  lay  in 
soil  belonging  to  no  alien  country,  but  in  soil  that  is  sacred 
for  our  flag  waves  over  them.  It  is  well  that  it  is  so,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  it,  for  no  other  government,  save  ours,  owns  a 
cemetery  for  its  dead  in  Mexico. 

But  for  this  their  bones  might  not  rest  in  peace  but  be 
subject  to  eviction,  as  is  the  rule  for  non-payment  here.  And 
it  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  when  one  thinks  of  the  room 
needed  in  cemeteries  here. 

In  the  past  twenty-seven  years  the  death  rate  in  the  City 

of  Mexico  has  amounted  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 

—nearly  as  much  as  the  entire  population  in  the  city  now. 

Judging  from  the  death  rate  the  climate  and  other  conditions 

are  not  the  most  desirable  in  the  world. 

The  plazas,  churches  and  market  places  have  occupied  a 
great  deal  of  my  spare  time.  There  is  always  something  of 
interest  that  is  strange  and  new  in  this  sister  republic.  And 
though  the  City  of  Mexico  is  only  about  as  far  away  from 
us  in  California  as  New  York,  it  is,  in  many  respects,  so  unlike 
ours  that  it  savors  more  of  the  Orient. 


122  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

It  is  needless  to  tell  you  that  I  am  thoroughly  enjoying  the 
dolce  far  niente  life  while  harking  back  to  the  days  of  the 
Toltecs  and  Aztecs.  1  have  found  much  that  is  interesting 
in  the  Aztec  relics. 

In  the  museum  near  the  Plaza  Major,  among  the  many 
relics  of  an  ancient  people,  are  the  Aztec  Calendar  Stone  and 
the  horrible  Sacrificial  Stone  with  its  circular  basin  in  the 
center  and  the  groove  that  drained  the  blood  of  the  victims, 
whose  bodies  were  gashed  by  flint  knives,  and  whose  hearts 
were  torn  from  the  palpitating  bodies  that  were  stretched 
upon  this  relic  of  revolting  barbarism. 

There  were  crude  instruments  and  distorted  idols  of  long 
ago.  There  were  mummies  which  history  tells  us  were 
walled  up  alive.  I  saw  fragments  of  a  rope  which  still  clung 
to  the  ankles  of  a  female  suggesting  unfathomed  horrors. 
Relics  of  Hidalgo  and  the  red  damask  standard  of  the  con 
querors,  a  portrait  of  Cortez,  a  shield  of  Montezuma,  are 
some  of  the  interesting  things  I  recall  in  the  museum  of 
antiquities. 

Among  many  paintings  of;  the  old  masters  in  the  art  gal 
leries  are  some  notable  paintings  of  Mexican  artists,  among 
which  is  one  where  a  father  and  daughter  are  presenting  a 
Toltec  prince  with  a  new  drink — pulque — which  proves  con 
clusively  to  me  that  the  prohibitionists  have  never  flourished 
in  this  land  flowing  with  traditional  milk — but  that  pulque, 
in  reality,  has  irrigated  the  thirsty  throats  of  the  people  from 
the  Toltec  reign  down  to  the  present  ruler,  Diaz. 

I  leave  the  gallery  and  museum  with  the  grim  old  gods 
and  strange,  distorted  idols,  remnants  of  prehistoric  ages 
that  would  take  pages  to  describe,  glancing  for  a  moment  at 
the  massive  and  gaudy  carriages  of  state,  and  the  gold  and 
silver  table  service  of  Maximilian. 

My  thoughts  fly  back  to  Queretero,  the  lonely  plain,  and 
the  crosses  on  the  silent  hill.  I  think  of  the  wonderful  changes 
in  the  life  of  the  man  who  planned  the  Paseo,  the  magnificent 
drive  leading  out  to  Chapultepec  where  the  aristocrats  drive 
every  evening  from  four  until  seven  o'clock.  Where  wealth 
is  displayed  in  every  possible  way,  in  horses  and  equipages 
of  every  description.  Where  beautiful  women  display  their 
jewels  and  exquisite  creations  from  Paris.  I  think,  also,  that 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


123 


CATHEDRAL    AND    ZOCALO,    MEXICO    CITY. 


Maximilian,    like    many,    planned,    but    others    enjoy    the 
benefits. 

We  have  idled 
hours  away  in  the  Zo- 
calo,  the  people's  park, 
in  front  of  the  old 
Cathedral.  On  this 
same  plaza  once  stood 
the  temple  of  the  Az 
tecs.  Here  was  the 
Teocalli  or  place  of 
sacrifice,  and  here  the 
great  Cathedral,  em 
blem  of  peace,  now 
stands. 

The  interior,  whose 
marvelous  richness 
was  once  a  source  of 
wonder,  has  been 
looted,  as  have  most 
of  the  churches  in  the  Republic. 

The  exterior,  however,  is  scarcely,  if  at  all,  outrivaled  in 
Italy.  Its  domes  and  minarets  are  replicas  of  what  I  have 
seen  in  Moslem  lands. 

Spain  sent  her  architects  to  Mexico,  but  it  is  not  their 
carving  on  facades;  not  theirs  the  oddly  executed  designs  I 
found  in  so  many  places  that  show  in  all  the  strange  stone 
work,  prehistoric  art.  We  sit  here  in  the  twilight  and  listen 
to  the  music  of  the  band  while  senoras  and  senoritas  stroll  by 
in  bright  rebosos  and  coquettish  veils. 

We  have  visited  the  tree  of  the  Noche  Triste,  under  which 
Cortez  wept  on  the  night  of  his  memorable  flight  in  1520. 

We  went  also  to  a  bull  fight,  the  details  of  which  are  too 
revolting  to  give  you  on  paper.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  there 
were  throngs  of  people  yelling,  throwing  the  banderillas  into 
the  backs  and  flanks  of  the  bulls;  encouraging  the  matadors, 
the  picadors,  frantic  with  delight  as  each  maddened  bull 
gored  some  poor  old  blind-folded  horse  or  when  the  bull 
himself  dropped  dead  from  a  skillful  sword  thrust. 


i24  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Five  bulls,  as  many  horses  and  one  man,  were  sacrificed 
that  afternoon.  It  was  the  most  brutal  and  debasing  sight 
I  have  ever  witnessed. 

Fred  had  left  our  box  early  in  the  afternoon  and  I  found 
him  outside  waiting  impatiently  for  me. 

"How  could  you  endure  it?"  he  said. 

"I  hated  to  flunk  before  all  those  bright-eyed  senoritas," 
I  replied.  "I  was  looking  more  at  them — especially  when 
I  saw  a  bull  disembowel  a  horse  in  a  terribly  sickening  man 
ner.  I  looked  at  some  beautiful  women  in  a  box  next  to  ours 
and  saw  them  waving  their  handkerchiefs  with  delight.  It  is 
a  study,  my  dear  fellow,  and  sets  me  to  wondering.  If  civi 
lization  makes  our  women  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood  or 
cruelty,  surely  its  roots  have  not  struck  very  deeply  in  the 
nerves  of  femininity  as  we  have  seen  evidenced  here  today. 
The  influences  of  the  Sacrificial  Stone  are  still  powerful,  and 
the  old  Aztec  idea  of  sacrifice,  whether  for  the  soul's  sake 
or  for  a  Mexican  holiday,  is  still  dominant." 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  a  day,  the  last  one,  I  spent  at  the 
floating  islands.  I  went  down  the  Viga,  the  canal,  which  is 
supplied  with  water  from  Lake  Xochimilco,  which  is  only 
four  feet  higher  than  the  city. 

The  water  flows  barely  enough  to  keep  it  from  stagnation 
but  the  sluggish  current  suits  the  large  flat-bottomed  boats 
that  carry  all  kinds  of  stuff — hay,  wood,  vegetables,  fruit  and 
flowers — to  the  markets.  An  Indian  and  a  pole  propel  each 
craft,  and  the  slow-moving  current  does  the  rest. 

Time  is  nothing  here.  The  only  "rush"  orders  known  in 
Mexico  are  for  the  pulque  trains,  bringing  the  national  drink 
to  the  city,  which  consumes  one  hundred  thousand  pints  daily. 
Pulque  will  stand  only  one  "tomorrow,"  and  the  thirsty  will 
not  wait. 

Along  the  canal  I  saw  the  unkempt  picturesque  crowds 
and  filthy  lazaroni  whose  senses  were  steeped  in  their  favo 
rite  drink,  pulque,  and  who  were  dripping  with  vermin.  The 
very  sight  made  me  feel  rather  creepy  and  very  shy  of  being 
too  near  them.  But  though  degraded  and  ragged,  there  is 
always  a  touch  of  color  in  the  ensemble  which  makes  them 
picturesque  even  in  their  filth. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  125 

I  look  on  them  and  wonder  why  it  is  that  beggars  seem  to 
increase  and  multiply  in  warm  climates.  There  seems  to 
be  a  similarity  between  them  and  mosquitoes,  both  being 
born  of  warmth  and  stagnation.  Both  being  more  in  evi 
dence  in  hot  than  in  cold  climates. 

Among  the  crowds  I  saw  the  dandy,  with  trousers  so  tight, 
it  is  a  marvel  how  he  ever  pulls  them  on  or  off.  The  gayly 
embroidered  jacket  and  cherished  sombrero  added  to  the 
picture. 

But  I  was  glad  to  turn  to  nature  unadorned  as  the  choco 
late-colored  children  crowded  around  me,  beautiful  in  their 
nakedness,  holding  out  eager  hands  while  the  soft  voices 
pleaded,  "Centavo,  centavo,"  and  melting  eyes  looked  shyly 
at  me  from  a  tangled  mass  of  hair.  The  few  cents  bestowed 
called  forth  such  radiant  looks  that  I  felt  it  was  blessed  to 
give. 

It  seems  to  me  that  among  the  filthy  poor  in  Rome  and 
Naples,  I  have  never  seen  such  dirt  and  abject  poverty. 

Hard  as  is  their  lot  here  I  did  not  pity  them  as  I  did  the 
poor  abused  little  burros.  Scarcely  larger  than  a  good  sized 
dog,  they  are  laden  with  double  their  weight  and  sizes,  with 
all  kinds  of  merchandise.  Slabs  of  stone  are  slung  across 
their  backs.  Tottering  beneath  their  burdens  they  are  only 
a  little  worse  off,  however,  than  the  women,  who  besides 
carrying  heavy  weights  upon  their  backs  or  heads,  usually 
have  a  baby  wrapped  in  their  rebosos,  an  added  burden. 

And  quite  often  I  saw  little  girls  from  eight  to  ten  years 
of  age  with  infants  strapped  upon  their  backs,  becoming 
from  earliest  youth,  beasts  of  burden  also. 

I  saw  the  huts  made  of  corn-stalks  and  mud,  the  tiny  char 
coal  fires  and  absence  of  everything  we  call  comfort  in  life. 
And  it  is  not  hard  to  understand  that  the  people  in  many  parts 
of  the  town,  whose  only  hope — if  hope  they  have — is  star 
vation  or  next  to  it,  reason  the  uselessness  of  virtue,  and 
prefer  vice,  for  they  are  pretty  sure  that  even  in  prison,  work 
is  not  very  severe,  and  that  when  death  comes  to  them  there 
— it  will  not  be  by  starvation. 

Fred  had  preceded  me  and  1  found  him  absorbed  in  his 
work. 


126  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Why  are  you  so  busy  with  your  brushes?  One  would 
think  you  were  an  artist  and  depended  on  so  many  yards  of 
canvas  for  your  bread  and  butter." 

"I  must  do  something,  old  fellow,"  he  said.  "You  are 
happy  in  idleness,  while  this  may  seem  like  work  to  you,  it 
is  play — diversion — and  keeps  my  thoughts  occupied  in  a 
way.  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  this  little  sketch." 

I  looked  and  saw  a  scene  that  startled  me.  It  was  a  pic 
ture  that  was  true  in  the  coloring,  and  with  a  wealth  of  bloom 
and  verdure.  A  fair  girl's  face  peeped  out  from  some  tall 
grasses;  a  vibrant  air  was  in  the  picture  that  seemed  waver 
ing  amid  the  tremulous  reeds.  The  girl's  figure,  even  though 
partially  concealed  by  the  grasses,  stood  out  boldly  from  the 
canvas.  The  drapery  was  perfect  in  its  loose  folds,  much  as 
I  have  seen  in  Russian  pictures — bold,  yet  not  severe,  but  so 
true  that  I  almost  expected  to  see  the  wind  move  the  loose 
sleeve  that  fell  back  from  an  upraised  arm  that  was  reaching 
up  for  some  great  clusters  of  crimson  blossoms  above  her 
head.  One  arm  held  a  quantity  of  the  vines  that  hung  in 
trailing  beauty  down  to  her  feet.  It  was  a  picture  remind 
ing  me  of  Corot,  it  was  so  sweet  and  fresh.  A  springtime  air 
was  in  the  flowers  and  grasses — and  the  springtime  of  youth 
in  the  figure  of  the  girl. 

"Where  did  you  find  that?"  I  cried,  pointing  to  the  girl's 
face. 

"She  was  here  yesterday,  and  I  sketched  her,  and  am  finish 
ing  the  accessories  to  the  picture  today." 

"Jove,  but  she  is  a  beauty  as  you  have  portrayed  her." 

"I  could  not  do  her  justice.     You  should  see  her,  hear  her 


voice." 


"You  did  not  speak  to  her?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  asked  permission  of  her  and  her  companion, 
to  paint  her.  If  you  could  have  heard  her  speak  in  her  soft, 
liquid  voweled-haunted  Spanish,  you  would  be  quite  satis 
fied  to  live  more  in  the  present  and  not  be  wasting  time  over 
distorted  gods  and  hideous  idols.  I  am  to  call  to  see  them; 
I  gave  them  my  card  and  mentioned  you.  Do  you  care  to 
go?" 

"Certainly.  Do  you  think  I  have  changed  my  nature 
entirely  because  of  a  bull-fight  or  two,  and  the  diversion  of  a 


FROM   THE   WORLD  127 

cock-fight  now  and  then?  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  your 
fair  senorita  whenever  you  choose  to  go." 

We  loitered  away  the  whole  afternoon,  Fred  busy  part  of 
the  time  with  his  work,  and  I  was  busy  also  in  watching  the 
people  drinking  pulque,  eating  the  omnipresent  tortilla  and 
tamale,  while  listening  to  the  twang  of  guitars  and  soft 
voices  of  the  girls  coquetting  with  the  boatmen  on  the  canal. 

The  sun  sank  lower,  the  air  was  still,  save  a  thrill  of  har 
mony  that  reached  us  as  we  sat  under  a  great  tree  watching 
the  changing  lights  on  the  sluggish  stream.  It  came  in  soft, 
wavering  sounds  like  heavenly  music — from  nowhere  in  par 
ticular — but  there  was  an  ineffable  sweetness  in  the  harmony 
that  soothed  and  hushed  all  disturbing  thoughts. 

"Oh,  Fred,  isn't  that  delicious  music?  From  where  does 
it  come?" 

"From  the  old  Cathedral  in  the  city.  I  heard  it  last  eve 
ning.  It  is  the  bells  ringing  for  vespers." 

"Surely  not,  and  we  hear  it  so  far  away?" 

"It  is  the  altitude  and  the  still  atmosphere,"  he  replied. 
"See  those  peons  now,  how  wrapt  they  are  in  their  Ave 
Marias.  It  is  a  sound  from  heaven  to  them." 

"They  may  not  appreciate  the  music  as  we  do,  for  it  is 
exalting  and  gives  me  an  exultant  feeling,"  I  said,  "a  con 
sciousness  of  bliss.  There  is  a  brooding  tenderness  in  the 
strangely  sweet  melody,  that  seems  a  mixture  of  stringed 
instruments  \vhich  soothes  and  drives  away  all  harrowing 
thoughts,  in  the  vibrant  thrills  of  harmony.  But  one  can 
readily  see  its  influence  on  these  wretchedly  poor  peons  who 
listen  as  if  enthralled  by  the  sounds." 

The  warm  sunshine  rested  upon  their  bowed  heads,  the 
dust-filled  air  was  golden.  They,  the  village  and  canal  were 
transfigured,  and  the  great  steady  magnet  of  the  earth  seemed 
to  radiate  peace  and  contentment. 

Living  so  close  to  Nature's  heart,  they  may,  possibly,  while 
knowing  no  better  life  and  still  less  of  the  joys  and  ambitions 
of  a  brighter  life,  be  spared  the  corresponding  depths  of 
sorrow  and  despair.  So  if  they  have  their  daily  tortilla  and 
a  draught  of  pulque,  the  nepenthe  that  has  the  power  of  send 
ing  their  cares  to  sleep,  with,  perhaps,  the  ineffable  joy  of  a 


128  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

bull-fight  once  in  a  lifetime,  the  earth  for  them  could  hold  no 
greater  happiness. 

"I  know,"  I  continued,  "that  music  has  a  wonderful  effect 
on  many  people,  and  loving  it  passionately  as  I  do — and 
knowing  its  effect  on  me — I  often  wonder  how  far  its  influ 
ence  extends  in  the  matter  of  good  or  ill  in  this  world." 

I  believe  it  was  Confucius  who  said:  "If  you  would  know 
whether  a  country  is  well  governed  and  of  good  morals,  listen 
to  its  music."  If  one  judges  by  music,  I  could  believe  almost 
anything  that  might  be  laid  at  China's  door  when  I  listen  to 
the  music — begging  Mozart's  pardon — that  I  hear  in  China 
town,  if  one  could  call  it  music.  Confucius  was  a  wise  man 
and  gave  his  followers  fundamental  principles  that  if  lived 
up  to  are  good  enough  for  any  nation.  But  I  fear  he  knew 
but  little  of  music. 

Do  the  wheezy,  groaning  bag-pipes  of  Scotland  teach  us 
anything  of  their  governments?  Or  does  the  music  of  Russia, 
flung  out  over  the  snows  and  ice-bound  Neva  from  the  Win 
ter  Palace,  help  the  poor  who  live  within  the  shadows  of  the 
great  building,  or  raise  the  moral  or  mental  condition  of 
those  shut  in  the  grim  fortfesses  of  Peter  and  Paul? 

The  music  is  good.  1  have  heard  it.  But  the  horrors  of 
the  oppressed,  the  tortures  of  the  condemned  in  the  mines 
of  Siberia — what  are  we  to  think  of  Russian  music  in  con 
nection  with  goodness  and  morality? 

"We  may  not  be  able  to  understand  the  effect  on  different 
nations,"  said  Fred.  "But  when  one  thinks  of  the  harp  of 
Ireland,  the  lilt  of  the  Creole  lute,  and  the  one  instrument  we 
can  safely  call  our  own,  the  banjo,  each  brings  different  sen 
sations. 

"Our  music  may  be  as  meaningless  to  the  Filipinos  and 
the  Chinamen  as  theirs  is  to  us.  But  one  thing  we  must 
admit,  that  among  the  uncultivated  and  uncivilized,  whose 
musical  instruments,  crude  and  grotesque  as  they  often  are, 
there  is  in  their  music  an  undertone  of  misery,  a  plaintive 
wail  in  the  minor  chords  that  goes  straight  to  one's  heart.  At 
least  I  have  found  it  so.  But  how  far  these  impressions 
influence  the  uncivilized,  we  cannot  judge." 

Just  then  there  came  from  a  garden  near-by  sounds  like  the 
shrill  rasping  of  some  great  cicada  from  the  depths  of  a 


FROM    THE    WORLD  129 

tangle  of  vines  that  died  away,  then  the  sounds  of  a  harp 
in  soft,  sweet,  harmonious  vibrations  thrilled  us.  Then  ten 
der  tones  from  voices  came  on  the  perfumed  laden  air.  It 
was  as  if  some  heavenly  choir  had  rested  a  moment  in  the 
dusk  of  the  eve,  and  Israfil,  the  angel  of  song,  had  paused  to 
make  us  feel  for  a  time  the  wondrous  power  of  music. 

And  the  influence  was  evident  upon  the  peons  who  listened 
with  ecstatic  attention.  Their  burdens  seem  to  have  left 
them,  joy  and  happiness  shone  in  their  dark  eyes,  and  a  bit 
of  heaven  seemed  to  have  dropped  down  in  their  hearts  and 
they  forgot  life's  woes  and  sorrows. 

It  was  a  moment,  a  scene  that  burnt  itself  into  my  heart.  I 
felt  the  inexpressible  beauty  and  solemnity  of  it  and  felt  also 
my  blood  was  stirred  to  greater  and  better  impulses.  Fred's 
face  showed  his  emotions  also. 

"You  are  answered,"  he  said.  "Look  at  them,"  pointing 
to  the  people,  "and  say  if  you  can  that  music  is  not  elevating 
and  beneficial." 

"I  am  sure  of  it  in  some  things,  and  even  if  momentary 
only,  it  helps.  It  is  elevating — even  if  being  the  least  intel 
lectual  of  all  the  arts,  it  appeals  to  common  humanity  and  is 
said  by  some  to  extend  all  through  nature.  That  animal  and 
plant  life  are  affected  by  music;  that  buds,  blossoms,  and 
especially  the  sensitive  plant,  shows  the  power  of  music  by 
unfolding  its  leaves  as  if  it  were  drinking  the  sunshine;  and 
that  discords  will  cause  it  to  shiver  and  close  its  fronds.  If 
the  fibres  of  a  plant  are  affected,  how  then  can  we  judge  of 
the  effect  on  the  human  nerves?" 

"It  is  rather  idle  to  speculate  upon  the  subject  as  was  said 
in  the  beginning,"  replied  Fred,  "for  we  know  not  how  far 
music  extends  for  good  or  ill.  Men  march  to  death  at  the 
stirring  sounds  of  music,  with  eager  steps  that  might  lag 
without  the  inspiring  strains.  War,  battle,  marriage  and 
death — all  are  accompanied  by  music.  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine  a  world  without  music,  and  heaven  is  a  promised 
land  of  harp  and  song.  So  these  toiling,  helpless,  earth 
atoms,  try  to  bring  a  little  of  it  into  their  lives  as  they  journey 
on  through  their  allotted  days,  with  song  and  the  insidious 
swing  of  stringed  instruments  that  cheer,  stimulate  and  are 
also  a  narcotic,  helping,  perhaps,  far  more  than  we  know." 


XV  % 

"Love  truly  and  love  long,  for  it  is  a  gentle  thing  and  sweet  in  the 
learning.  When  love  goes  out  of  fashion,  heaven  will  also." 

ALICE  WROTE 

I  can  tell  it  to  my  journal,  if  to  no  one  else,  a  little  bit  of 
the  happiness  that  fell  my  way  during  the  days  that  followed. 
Mrs.  Andrews  had  been  sent  home  and  we  two  journeyed 
eastward.  Alice  in  fairyland  with  her  prince  for  an  escort. 

There  was  nothing  real.  It  was  like  magic  all  the  way, 
andv  surely  none  the  less  when  we  left  the  main  line  and 
started  on  another  road  to  Yellowstone  Park. 

We  followed  a  clear,  sparkling  river  flowing  through 
Paradise  Valley.  Paradise  found,  indeed !  I  remember 
smiling  at  a  little  child  who  wras  wild  with  delight  even  as  I 
was  now,  for  like  the  little  fellow  the  world  seemed  new  and 
fresh  to  me.  He  was  looking  at  the  bright,  sparkling  waters 
of  the  river. 

"Oh,  look,"  he  said  to  me.  "The  water  of  the  river  is 
washed  clean." 

His  mother  explained  that  they  had  come  from  the  East 
and  the  child  had  seen  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Yellowstone 
for  several  hundred  miles.  It  was  as  he  saw  it  "clean"  and 
pure;  and  life  was  like  that  to  me  as  we  went  along  that 
limpid  stream,  its  waters  alive  with  trout  and  graylings,  so 
my  prince  explained  as  we  watched  it  glide  under  the  shadow 
of  rock-ridged  peaks  and  ripple  along  over  its  gravel  bed 
between  tree-fringed  borders. 

There  was  the  panorama  of  the  Snow  Mountains  making 
a  succession  of  the  grandest  pictures,  and  though  I  am  not 
wise  in  geological  affairs,  and  not  learned  in  cause  and  effect, 
I  knew  that  they  were  born  of  volcanic  action;  that  streams 
of  lava  had  coursed  down  these  peaks  and  that  glaciers  had 
worn  and  corroded  deep  rifts  and  stranded  granite  and  gneiss 
far  up  the  slopes.  The  play  of  wind  and  water  is  seen  upon 

130 


FROM   THE   WORLD  131 

the  softer  material  and  the  strangest,  most  fantastic  forms 
of  peak  and  pinnacle,  mound  and  pillar,  are  everywhere  dis 
cernible. 

There  are  somber  gulches  and  slopes  rich  in  color.  Espe 
cially  was  this  very  effective  at  the  Devil's  Slide,  a  fiery  strip 
of  bright  vermilion  bordered  with  red-brown  clay  and  bands 
of  yellow,  a  smooth  and  easy  slide  for  his  satanic  majesty. 

I  remember  the  Gardiner  River  and  the  first  boiling  springs 
flowing  therein,  where — this  being  fairyland — they  told  me 
one  could  catch  a  fish  in  the  cool  part  of  the  river,  then  cook 
it  in  the  hot  water  on  the  other  side  without  unhooking  the 
fish.  What  a  delightful  land  I  thought,  and  what  delicious 
fish  dinners  we  would  have  ! 

Then  the  scene  changed.  A  storm  came  up  suddenly;  we 
had  outside  seats  and  were  unprepared  for  rain,  but  the 
driver,  an  old  Californian,  learning  I  was  an  aborigine,  or 
native  to  the  heath,  pulled  off  his  coat  and  gallantly  insisted 
on  covering  me  with  it;  surely  the  good  fairies  were  in  evi 
dence,  for  I  was  warm  and  cozy  and  never  a  drop  of  rain 
touched  me  until  we  stopped  at  our  destination.  At  dinner 
the  prince  bending  his  head  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  said : 

"We  are  in  fairyland  now.  Will  Queen  Alice  have  a  glass 
of  wine?" 

"Never,  never  again,  whether  in  fairyland  or  real  land 
—why  should  you  ask?" 

"I  was  only  teasing  you,"  he  said,  "I  did  not  mean  it." 

"No,  you  surely  do  not  want  me  to  be  ill,  and,  oh,  that 
headache !  Do  you  know  I  never  had  a  headache  until  that 
wine  you  gave  me  made  me  feel  so  strange.  Even  now  I 
cannot  recall  much  about  that  night." 

"Well,  don't  try;  we'll  not  speak  of  it  again  until  we 
assume  our  mortal  forms  and  appetites;  but,  as  it  is,  the  din 
ner  is  rather  good." 

So  we  passed  the  time  indulging  in  all  the  sweet  and  foolish 
things  of  love,  and  no  angel  or  demon  was  there  in  my  para 
dise  to  whisper,  "Keep  your  heart  from  running  over,  bridle 
your  affections  while  you  may."  I  only  felt  that  love,  like 
my  soul,  was  immortal — that  it  would  never  know  age  or 
death.  I  knew  that  my  heart  echoed  the  sentiment,  "Love 
— it  is  stronger  than  prisons,  stronger  than  sorrow,  stronger 


i3 2  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

than  shame;  it  is  stronger  even  than  death."  I  whispered  I 
this  to  the  prince  as  we  walked  out  once  to  see  those  wonder- 1 
ful  terrace-building  springs. 

"Do  you  mean  it,  my  darling?  Is  your  love  so  deep,  so 
enduring?"  he  asked,  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes.  "Is  it  strong 
enough  to  endure  shame,  and  the  world's  scorn?  Would  you 
still  love  me  no  matter  if  someone  else  wanted  me  or  claimed 
me?  You  would  not  turn  me  away  from  you  or  cease  to 
love  me?" 

"Nothing  can  separate  us  so  long  as  we  love  each  other. 
My  love  is  yours  through  time  and  eternity,"  I  answered. 
"But  why  do  you  ask?  What  is  wrong?"  for  he  had  grown 
pale  while  we  were  talking. 

"Nothing,  we  are  two  silly  people;  let  us  be  happy  and 
enjoy  all  things  as  they  come  to  us.  Look,  dear,  did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  beautiful?" 

In  a  moment  the  springs  looming  up  through  clouds  of 
steam  some  two  hundred  feet  above  the  plateau  lay  before 
us.  There  are  snow-white  terraces,  basins  and  limpid  pools 
with  coatings  on  the  sides,  of  every  delicate  tint,  cream  and 
salmon  colors  deepen  into  brilliant  shades,  red,  brown,  green 
and  yellow,  and  here,  too,  we  saw  the  most  delicate  frost 
work,  honeycomb  patterns  and  exquisite  designs  in  coral  carv 
ings.  Some  basins  are  clear  as  crystal  and  some  a  torquoise 
blue.  The  water  overflows  the  basins  and  rims  of  the  springs 
in  gentle  pulsings,  noiselessly  building  up  layer  after  layer  j 
of  this  lovely  fretting  which  crumbles  at  the  slightest  touch. 
The  crust  in  many  places  is  thin  and  there  are  ever  issuing 
clouds  of  steam. 

There  were  the  Liberty  Cap,  Giant's  Thumb,  Cupid's 
Cave,  and  so  many  places  to  visit  that  our  time  was  too  short 
to  see  all  we  wished. 

I  shall  hurry  on,  dear  journal,  and  give  as  clear  an  account 
of  the  following  days  as  possible.  I  may  want  to  recall  those 
days  when  I  am  old.  When  we  two,  if  we  should  live,  are 
old  and  nearly  blind,  I  will  take  you  out  from  where  you 
have  lain  for  years,  an  old,  dusty,  faded  book,  yellowed  with 
age  and  time  and  read  of  our  visit  in  fairyland, — the  prince 
and  the  young  fairy  who  had  just  been  awakened  after  untold 
cycles,  by  the  love  of  her  dear  prince. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  133 

Early  the  following  morning  we  started  out  in  a  carriage 
with  a  driver  for  a  tour  of  the  park.  The  roads  were  fine 
and  we  sped  rapidly  southward  through  a  magnificent  defile, 
passing  through  the  Golden  Gate  where  there  was  barely 
room  for  the  roadway,  built  along  the  river  and  on  one  side 
of  the  cliffs,  until  we  entered  an  open  valley.  Following  this 
for  some  miles  we  came  to  the  obsidian  cliffs.  The  vertical 
columns  are  like  those  of  the  Giant's  Causeway  of  which  I 
have  read,  only  these  are  of  glass  and  glisten  like  jet. 

At  the  Norris  Geyser  Basin,  we  paused  for  luncheon,  then 
proceeded  on  our  way,  coming  in  a  short  time  to  what  seemed 
wonderful  to  us — our  first  glimpse  of  a  geyser.  We  thought 
the  "Minute  Man"  grand  indeed,  and  could  have  tarried  in 
the  vicinity  a  whole  day,  for  at  every  turn  something  new, 
strange  and  fantastic  met  the  glance.  The  water  mutters, 
gurgles,  frying  and  sputtering  beneath  and  on  the  surface, 
and  we  trod  with  caution  the  treacherous  ground. 

We  were  hurried  on,  however,  to  something  more  wonder 
ful  all  that  afternoon.  I  can  only  write  a  sort  of  outline. 
We  saw  the  lovely  falls  of  the  Gibbon  River,  then  crossed 
Canon  Creek,  stopping  at  Firehole  Valley.  We  rested  here 
comfortably  enough  after  our  first  delightful  day  in  the  park. 
Near  the  hotel  was  a  clear,  limpid  pool,  which  we  visited. 
Just  as  I  reached  the  brink,  and  stooped  over  to  peer  down 
in  its  depths,  a  little  frog  tumbled  in ;  instantly  I  plunged  my 
hand  in  to  scoop  him  out.  I  succeeded,  but  my  hand  was 
badly  scalded,  and  the  frog  was  dead  long  before  I  touched 
him. 

We  were  up  with  the  sun  the  next  morning  and  off  for  the 
Upper  Geyser  Basin,  stopping  first  at  the  Fountain  Geyser 
and  Paint  Pot,  a  fine  white  mass  of  silicious  clay,  which  boils 
and  bubbles  like  a  huge  pot  of  mush.  This  pot  is  forty  by 
sixty  feet,  surrounded  by  numerous  smaller  ones  of  various 
tints  and  colors. 

Leaving  this  we  hurried  on  to  the  Excelsior,  the  grandest, 
as  we  afterwards  knew,  of  all  geysers.  We  crossed  the  Fire- 
hole  River  on  a  foot-bridge  and  went  up  at  once  to  the  edge 
of  the  crater.  The  geyser  has  not  been  in  action  for  several 
years  until  the  present  time,  and  we  were  most  fortunate  in 
witnessing  an  eruption  of  the  most  stupendous  geyser 


134  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

in  the  world.  There  was  an  immense  volume  of 
steam  as  we  looked  down  into  the  crumbling  depths. 
There  were  broken  walls  overhanging  those  unknown 
depths,  and  hollow  rumblings  were  heard  and  the 
hot  sulphurous  smell  was  overpowering.  A  few  moments 
only  had  we  thus  stood,  when  a  shout  of,  "Run,  run  quickly !" 
from  our  guide,  caused  us  to  stand  not  on  the  order  of  going. 
We  barely  had  time  to  reach  a  safe  distance  when  with  an 
awful  noise,  an  incredible  body  of  water  shot  up  some  three 
hundred  feet,  carrying  with  it  in  its  terrible  powyer  a  perfect 
shower  of  stones,  some  weighing  perhaps  one  hundred 
pounds.  This  lasted  several  minutes.  The  falling  stones, 
the  concussion  of  the  water,  the  vibrating  earth,  make  even 
the  bravest  keep  at  a  safe  distance.  Nothing  more  impressive 
orvawe-inspiring  have  I  ever  beheld.  The  Firehole  River 
rises  six  inches  during  an  eruption,  which  gave  us  an  idea  of 
the  vast  amount  of  water  that  poured  from  this  geyser,  and 
caused  us  to  think  the  river  aptly  named.  After  the  eruption 
we  had  a  better  view  of  the  aperture.  It  is  about  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  feet  in  diameter  with  walls  thirty  feet  high  on 
one  side.  The  other  slopes  toward  the  river  and  a  large 
volume  of  water  runs  over  it,  spreading  over  a  broad  surface, 
leaving  deposits  of  marvelous  beauty,  strikingly  vivid  in  col 
oring.  Every  shade  is  here,  from  the  brightest  scarlet  to  deli 
cate  rose  tints,  yellows,  browns,  vivid  greens,  wrought  and 
blended  into  wonderful  beauty.  There  are  frostlike  materials 
vibrating  with  every  pulsing  of  the  waters,  as  frail  as  beauti 
ful,  a  touch  destroying  them.  At  all  times  the  side  of  the 
river  next  to  the  geyser  is  hot,  the  opposite  side  having  pure 
cold  water.  The  Prismatic  Spring  near  by  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  beautiful  known.  The  dimensions  are  about  the  same 
as  the  geyser.  In  the  center,  the  water  is  a  pale  blue,  chang 
ing  to  green  at  the  edge.  Near  the  rim  are  the  varied  tints 
which  1  have  described,  only  intensified.  I  do  not  know  why 
they  call  this  Hell's  Half  Acre,  for  aside  from  the  geyser, 
anything  more  peaceful,  more  exquisitely  lovely  could  not  be 
imagined. 

Leaving  this  place  with  regret,  we  went  on  past  many 
places  of  lesser  interest,  and,  on  arriving  at  the  hotel  at  the 
Upper  Basin,  tarried  only  a  brief  time  and  then  went  only 


FROM   THE   WORLD  135 

a  short  distance  to  the  Old  Faithful  Geyser.  This,  every 
sixty  minutes,  sends  up  a  stream  of  boiling  hot  water  two  hun 
dred  feet  high.  We  were  here  also  in  time  to  see  it  shoot 
its  silvery  spray  far  up  in  the  air,  falling,  a  veritable  shower  of 
pearls,  eastward,  with  the  loveliest  rainbows  around  it.  We 
were  fortunate  in  having  a  clear  day;  for  two  weeks  previous 
it  had  rained  every  day.  From  here  the  entire  band  of 
geysers,  all  within  an  area  of  half  a  mile,  may  be  seen  and 
heard  as  they,  singly  or  in  unison,  give  grand  concerts  with 
their  steaming  trumpets,  rumbling  and  muttering,  or  in  loud 
est  tones.  We  saw  here  during  the  day  some  of  the  most 
noted  geysers  in  action ;  it  would  require  volumes  to  describe 
them  all.  We  wandered  from  one  to  another  too  much 
engrossed  to  think  how  time  was  flying,  forgetting  hunger 
and  fatigue  till  night  was  upon  us  and  we  were  forced  to  leave. 

Dante  could  imagine  nothing  more  desolate  and  awe- 
inspiring  than  is  seen  here  in  this  basin, — the  clouds  of  steam 
hanging  over  it,  white  wraiths  of  vapor,  ghost-like,  floating 
between  the  treetops,  and  the  deep  mutterings  as  the  earth 
gurgles  as  if  in  throes  of  agony,  the  air  heavy  with  sulphu 
rous  vapors,  while  ever  shooting  up,  here  and  there,  is  water, 
veiled  in  spray,  or  glittering  in  the  sunlight.  No  artist  could 
ever  paint,  no  Dore  illustrate  these  marvelous  fountains, 
nature's  grand  and  most  gorgeous  coloring  in  this  strong 
hold  of  the  wonderful. 

From  the  Lower  Geyser  Basin  we  went  to  the  Grand 
Canon  and  Falls  of  the  Yellowstone.  After  a  long  drive  we 
arrived  at  the  hotel,  and,  without  waiting  for  luncheon,  took 
saddle-horses  and  rode  over  a  steep  bridle-path  for  several 
miles  along  the  canon.  The  Falls  have  a  brightness  and 
beauty  of  their  own,  and,  viewed  from  the  dizzy  heights 
above,  the  Lower  Falls  are  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  My 
horse  meant  business  from  the  first,  and,  if  he  was  not  of  the 
kind  that  belonged  to  Balaam,  did  all  that  was  necessary 
without  speaking.  He  knew  better  than  I  every  vantage- 
point,  and  would  deliberately  walk  up  to  the  very  verge  of  the 
dizzy  chasm,  and  turn  himself  around  for  me  to  wonder  and 
admire.  I  was  in  mortal  terror  at  first,  and  had  not  much 
breath  left  for  speaking  purposes,  for  often  a  single  misstep 
would  have  sent  horse  and  rider  down  into  those  awful  depths 


136  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

where  the  rushing,  foaming  river  dashed  in  agony  and  vain 
endeavor  in  its  narrow  channel,  so  far  below  us  that  never 
a  sound  reached  us  on  the  tops  of  these  peaks. 

After  a  time  I  trusted  to  Providence  and  let  "Peter," 
have  his  own  way,  while  I  watched  with  a  feeling  of 
envy,  the  eagles  and  fish-hawks  sailing  far  below  us,  sure 
of  themselves,  feeding  their  young  in  the  nests  down  on  those 
beetling  crags  which  were  safe  from  all  marauders. 

If  I  find  it  impossible  to  describe  the  eruption  of  a  geyser, 
how  shall  I  attempt  to  tell  of  this  canon,  of  its  vast  pinnacles 
and  sculptured  rocks,  of  the  depths,  the  stillness  and  solemn 
silence  of  this  yawning  chasm?  We  had  dismounted  and 
clambered  down  a  narrow  trail,  out  on  the  uttermost  verge 
of  a  point  of  rocks  hanging  directly  over  the  river.  It  needs 
a  sure  foot,  and  many  strong  men  cannot  endure  to  stand 
upon  that  dizzy  height.  Once  in  a  good  position  and  cling 
ing  to  a  portion  of  rock,  I  felt  that  it  was  worth  risking  a 
life  only  to  stand  for  a  moment  and  take  one  glance.  The 
chasm  in  hues  and  coloring  is  as  bright  as  the  most  brilliant 
painting.  There  are  all  the  tints  of  spring  and  the  gorgeous 
coloring  of  autumn.  It  is  as  though  the  most  vivid  coloring 
of  earth  and  sky  had  centered  here,  or  as  if  the  banners  of  the 
most  brilliant  sunset  had  been  caught  and  imprisoned  on 
those  slopes;  yet  all  combined  and  reproduced  could  not 
exceed  the  loveliness  of  those  downward  steeps. 

What  builders  and  artists  in  the  dim  ages  of  this  old  world 
labored  here  on  tower  and  dome  and  Gothic  arch !  What 
builders  grouped  and  fashioned  in  such  wondrous  beauty  or 
put  the  flames  of  colors  here  and  there!  And  down  below 
all  I  see  the  green  thread  of  the  soundless  river.  Silence 
seals  up  the  past  and  hovers  over  the  present,  and  we  could 
only  wonder,  marvel  and  adore.  This,  too,  is  another  day 
never  to  be  forgotten.  One  is  led  on  and  on  in  this  vast  park, 
being  in  some  sort  of  a  way  prepared  for  these  last  two  days, 
to  the  great  geysers  and  lastly  to  this  grand,  solemn,  gorgeous 
canon,  from  the  tumult  of  yesterday  to  the  air  of  gentle,  all- 
pervading  peace  hanging  over  those  peaks, — nature  wooing 
one  to  repose  such  as  approaches  one's  idea  of  eternal  rest. 

The  impressions  left  upon  me  can  never  be  forgotten. 
The  days  spent  in  this  wonderland  were  like  none  other  ever 


FROM   THE   WORLD  137 

known,  perhaps  ever  will  be  known  to  me, — breathing  the 
pure  air  of  the  mountains  fresh  and  strong,  "The  wandering 
winds  of  God,"  sweeping  down  from  those  lofty  heights; 
then  again  the  smell  from  regions  below  where  the  earth's 
heat  raged,  and  sulphurous  steam  stifled  and  smothered  me. 
Falling,  searing  and  blighting  the  earth  were  streams  of  scald 
ing  water,  while  others  came  fresh  from  the  snow-fields 
higher  up,  whose  white,  cold  silence  could  not  fret  or  mar  us 
warmed  with  the  sacred  fire  of  love,  which  seemed  to  grow 
warmer  and  brighter,  if  possible,  in  the  sweetness  of  com 
panionship  that  was  full  of  joy  and  peace. 

Ah,  life  in  your  fair  sweet  blossoming,  how  dearer  you 
are  growing  to  me  every  day !  The  thought  of  God's  good 
ness,  His  tender  love  protecting  us  amid  all  dangers,  caring 
for  us  two  out  of  the  whole  world  of  people,  bringing  us 
together  and  implanting  this  divine  love  in  our  hearts — love 
for  Him,  the  Creator,  and  this,  His  footstool !  1  bow  my 
head  in  thankfulness  and  feel  that  these  days  will  be  like 
days  apart,  sacred  and  dear.  Fragrant  memories  and  a 
hidden  sweetness  will  be  mine  of  them  for  aye.  Alice  in 
fairyland  and  her  prince  leading  her  hither  and  thither  with 
infinite  tenderness  and  boundless  love!  Other  thoughts, 
other  scenes  may  come  and  go,  but  these  days  of  enchantment 
will  be  folded  away  in  my  heart  and  will  remain  until  it  shall 
find  unfading  remembrances  in  the  "otherwhere"  of  God's 
own  realm. 


XVI 

"Friendship  is  as  it  were  the  face  and  also  the  raiment  of  love." 

If  only  I  might  speak  to  you  tonight,  my  dearest  Aileen, 
instead  of  writing,  you  who  have  been  here  and  have  enjoyed 
all  that  I  am  enjoying — enthralled  as  I  know  you  were,  for 
Rome  enthralls  the  world  by  its  old  religion,  its  classic  mem 
ories,  its  ruins  that  breathe  of  dead  years,  the  air  of  mystery 
that  hovers  over  the  old,  enchanted  places  of  which  history 
has  told  us.  Yet  since  here  I  feel  that  history  as  we  read  and 
as  we  see  it  seems  very  different  indeed.  What  did  I  know  of 
the  Porte  del  Popolo,  the  Gate  of  the  People,  by  reading? 
Now  I  know  and  love  the  scene,  while  looking  down  on  it 
from  the  Pincian  Hill,  where  in.  the  Plaza  stands  the  old 
obelisk,  speaking  to  me  of  the  time  of  Rameses,  of  the  Nile, 
of  Moses  and  the  children  of  Israel — old  when  the  Gauls 
came  through  the  Gate  from  the  Etruscan  Mountains.  I  look 
upon  the  strange  old  place  as  in  a  dream.  1  know  Nero's 
tomb  was  here.  I  know  that  pagan  altars  were  doomed  when 
Constantine  came  through  the  old  Gate  and  brought  with 
him  a  light  that  ages  have  not  dimmed — the  light  of 
Christianity. 

The  once  famous  Corso  is  interesting  to  me,  not  for  the 
sake  of  historical  association  only,  but  simply  as  I  see  it  now, 
with  the  people  of  today  thronging  the  long,  narrow  street. 
I  see  the  pifferari  with  their  cloaks  and  pipes,  priests  and 
brown  monks,  scarlet  seminarists,  nuns  in  black  and  white, 
the  bersaglieri  with  hats  loaded  with  cock-plumes  resting 
jauntily  on  one  ear,  and  the  carbinier]  in  uniform  of  black, 
with  silver  trimmings  a  bit  more  in  evidence  than  our  police 
men,  and  possibly  more  necessary.  The  heavy  carts,  superb 
oxen,  and  the  peculiar  peasant  life  interest  me  far  more  than 
the  parade  of  wealth  on  the  Pincian,  which  is  not  unlike  the 
display  of  wealth  in  any  large  city  here,  unless  it  be  the  livery 
of  the  king  and  queen  and  the  usual  curiosity  to  see  their 
majesties  drive.  The  tattered  coat  and  frowsy  unkempt 

138 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


hair,  the  wonderful  eyes,  the  dirt  and  picturesqueness  of  the 
contadina,  the  shepherds  with  goatskins  over  their  shoulders, 
and  the  horses,  adorned  with  bright  rosettes  and  feathers, 
passing  and  repassing  in  endless  confusion  like  a  dream. 

There  are  hours  spent  in  the  Borghese  Gardens,  and 
beyond  the  Gate  is  the  osteria  on  the  side  of  the  hill  still 
farther  out,  with  its  tables  under  the  ilex  trees  and  swaying 
vines,  where  we  go  at  times  and  eat  spaghetti  and  drink  the 


PORTE    DEL    POPOLO    AND    CLEOPATRA  S     NEEDLE. 

sour  wine  of  the  country,  in  order  to  see  and  know  better 
something  of  the  life  of  the  people. 


Since  I  wrote  the  foregoing,  I  have  been  prowling  along 
the  lanes  and  taking  trips  into  the  country.  I  have  been  to 
Soracte,  which  watches  over  the  Roman  Campagna,  lying 
peacefully  below  with  the  filmy  veil  hovering  over  it,  showing 
dimly  its  bare  and  treeless  undulating  lines.  I  have  loitered, 
also,  among  old  ruins  that  were  beautiful  under  overhanging 


1 40  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

trees  and  trailing  vines  which  sheltered  them  with  a  fairylike 
network,  softening  time's  rough  usage.  Broken  columns, 
capitals,  and  statuary  shattered  and  half-buried  in  the  soil 
where  bloom  sweet-scented  flowers  in  the  deathless  dust  of 
the  Campagna  speak  of  life,  sweet  and  pure,  amid 
desolation. 

I  sat  for  hours,  or  moments,  I  know  not  which,  on  an  old 
wall  out  on  the  Via  Appia,  lost  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  I 
looked  along  the  old  resurrected  road  which  leads  out  to  fair 
Frascati.  I  saw  the  broken  indented  lines  of  crumbling  walls 
and  aqueducts.  Then  my  eyes  rested  upon  the  rounded 
girth  of  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metelli, — a  woman's  tomb  !  The 
fairest  and  best  of  all  the  scattered  and  broken  heaps  and 
mounds  which  speak  of  the  dead  and  forgotten  men  and 
women  of  another  age — almost  another  world  it  seems  to  me. 

The  air  was  soft  and  sweet  with  the  odor  of  newly-turned 
earth  which  came  with  the  fragrance  of  herbs  crushed  by  the 
feet  of  the  gray  oxen,  plodding  slowly  along,  pulling  the 
plows  that  turned  the  rich  soil.  Children  were  singing  with 
the  birds  in  the  fields.  A  thrilling,  buoyant  life  was  about 
me,  and  I  thought  of  the  dead  beneath  the  great,  broken  and 
heaped-up  masses  of  stone  and  mortar,  who  have  in  times 
past  enjoyed  the  same  bright  sunshine,  the  sights  and  sounds 
that  thrilled  my  heart,  so  theirs  responded  to  the  fair,  enchant 
ing  days.  Old  shrines  are  here  where  they  sang  their  Ave 
Marias  and  vespers  in  the  calm  evenings.  Love,  despair, 
joy  and  grief  filled  their  hearts  and  all  the  unfathomed  yearn 
ings  we  feel  were  felt  by  them — the  all  of  life.  They  knew, 
also,  who  called  this  place  their  home,  and  so  must  have  loved 
life  and  country  far  more  than  the  stranger. 

I  know  that  at  every  turn  there  is  something  that  appeals, 
that  fascinates  and  enthralls  me.  I  feel  toward  Italy,  espe 
cially  toward  Rome,  as  a  friend  of  mine,  a  man  who  occupies 
an  exalted  position  among  the  great  men  of  earth,  wrote  me 
of  his  love  for  Jerusalem :  "I  would  rather  walk  her  muddy 
streets,  kneel  on  Calvary,  meditate  on  the  Mount  of  Olives, 
and  sob  in  Gethsemane,  aye,  and  starve  in  a  cell  there,  than 
occupy  that  vast  palace,  the  Vatican,  or  be  the  Pope  and  live 
and  feast  therein." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  141 

.  His  soul  is  attuned  to  higher  things  than  worldly  glories 
or  bodily  comforts. 

I  enjoy  a  fair  share  of  the  world's  best  when  it  means  food 
and  raiment,  but  I,  too,  can  put  aside  creature  comforts  and 
revel  in  soul-satisfying  things,  for  I  find  Rome  is  a  place  that 
is  to  me  half  reality  and  half  dreamlife.  At  times  I  forget 
that  it  is  all  but  a  dream,  when  in  St.  Peter's  I  hear  men  and 
boys  sing  in  the  twilight  the  vesper  psalms,  or  sitting  in  some 
dim  aisle  I  see  the  acolytes  swinging  the  censers,  and  watch 
the  incense  float  up  and  up  into  the  vast  dome  where  the  blue 
wreaths  engulf  the  figures  of  the  white  angels  far  above.  The 
glow  of  candles  shines  brightly  on  priestly  groups,  their 
gold-embroidered  and  crimson  and  purple  robes  flame  back 
an  answering  glow,  warm  and  bright  through  the  incense- 
weighted  air.  The  music  comes  sweet  and  soft  like  the  winds 
through  the  trees,  a  soothing,  living  sound  that  carries  me  on 
and  on  past  all  cares  and  perplexities  until  1  seem  to  have 
left  earthly  things  for  a  time  and  have  drifted  into  the  realm 
of  paradise.  I  leave  the  church  with  a  feeling  that  a  bene 
diction  and  a  blessing  from  the  statues  of  the  popes  high 
above  has  been  showered  down  upon  me.  Even  marble  gives 
me  certain  impressions,  I  felt  or  sensed  it  in  the  grand  old 
church,  so  I  felt  it  also  when  I  stood  before  Canova's  tomb, 
and  the  unbidden  tears  came  to  my  eyes  as  I  gazed  upon  the 
stricken  ones  mourning  there,  which  moved  me  more 
strangely  than  a  number  I  have  seen  in  real  or  simulated 
grief.  Only  marble !  But  you  will  not  laugh,  I  know,  when 
I  say  I  would  rather  kiss  the  lips  of  the  statue  of  Antinous 
than  many  I  have  seen  that  were  less  cold,  perhaps,  but  the 
lips  of  marble,  cold,  clean  and  tasteless,  are  preferable,  to  a 
taste  one  doesn't  like. 

A  last  glance  at  the  great  central  altar  with  its  lights  that 
are  ever  bright  around  the  shrine  of  the  apostle,  at  the  enorm 
ous  pillars,  at  the  statues  in  mysterious  niches,  the  mosaics  and 
silent  aisles,  leaves  an  impression,  enchanting,  soothing  and 
restful,  and  echo  of  the  past  a  hope  of  something  beyond  this 
earth-life  which  remains  in  my  soul  and  stays  with  me,  aye, 
and  will  remain  for  all  time  I  know. 

Then  half-dazed  1  find  myself  on  the  Ponto  Angelo,  the 
bridge  which  spans  the  Tiber,  and  which  leads  to  the  old 


142  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Castle  Angelo,  the  tomb  of  a  pagan  emperor.  Under  these 
breezy  statues  of  Bernini  that  make  me  feel  as  if  there  was  a 
strong  wind  blowing,  I  raised  my  face  expecting  to  feel  a 
breath  from  the  Pincio,  but  it  is  only  an  illusion — a  way  those 
old  masters  had.  I  have  felt  the  galling  chains  of  servitude 
gazing  on  the  sorrowful  faces  of  the  Dacian  captives  in 
carved  stone,  lining  the  road  leading  up  to  the  Pincio,  and 
have  felt  the  agony  of  the  Laocoon.  The  spirit  of  the  Greek 
slaves  that  decorated  and  beautified  Rome  is  extant,  and 
though  they  wrought  in  bondage,  the  art  that  Romans  were 
never  original  in  was  borrowed  or  stolen  from  them.  Yet, 
nevertheless,  it  was  art  that  has  outlasted  Roman  cruelty. 

I  saw  the  wine-red  of  the  after-glow  that  gleaming  in  the 
west  was  reflected  in  the  color-soaked  waters  of  the  Tiber; 
while  in  the  east  the  sky  glowed  like  an  opal's  heart,  and 
under  the  pale  light  the  towers  gleamed,  and  the  light  flashed 
on  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  that  was  seemingly  afloat  like 
some  great  gray  balloon  in  the  opaline  mists  hovering  over 
the  city  now  silent  on  her  seven  hills. 


Another  day  that  burnt  itself  on  memory's  tablets  was 
when  I  stood  upon  the  slopes  of  the  Alban  Hills  and  looked 
over  the  Campagna  towards  Rome,  on  and  beyond,  toward 
the  west  where  the  blue  haze  rose  above  the  Mediterranean. 
There  were  clustering  ilex  trees  with  deep  green  foliage,  and 
the  grayish  green  of  the  olive  groves,  vineyards  and  plowed 
fields,  and  it  seems  as  though  I  have  added  something  new, 
acquired  from  the  great  world-heart  that  is  the  apotheosis 
of  rest,  in  wandering  out  and  among  these  old  historical 
places  that  are  quieting  and  restful.  My  din-distraught 
ears  have  been  blest  by  the  silences  of  the  calm,  far-reaching 
spaces,  for  they  hold  the  essence  and  spirit  of  quietude.  My 
eyes  feasted  upon  the  windswept,  waving  fields  of  grain  and 
the  opalescences  of  waters  rimmed  by  wreaths  in  monotonic 
gradations  of  color. 

I  found  it  necessary  to  leave  the  picture  galleries,  the  Vati 
can  with  its  art  treasures,  the  churches  and  countless  places 
with  their  inexhaustible  stores  of  paintings,  statuaries,  and 
bronzes  that  dominate,  fascinate  and  haunt  one's  days  and 


FROM   THE   WORLD  143 

follow  even  in  dreams.  I  was  weary  of  cold  halls  and  of 
antiquities,  stifled  by  the  musty  air  of  crypts  and  catacombs 
and  the  forgotten  dust  of  the  one-time  men  whose  bones  now 
figure  in  that  triumph  of  grotesque  skill,  the  skeleton-deco 
rated  church  of  the  Capucines.  I  shrunk  from  the  gloom  of 
the  Mamertime  prison  where  Peter  and  Paul  were  imprisoned 
and  the  black  hole  where  Jugurtha  was  lowered  and  left  to 
starve,  until  my  soul  sickened  of  it  all  and  my  whole  being 
cried  for  a  rest.  Hence,  I  sought  the  peace  of  the  mountains, 
the  calm  of  the  woods,  and  found  that  which  my  senses 
craved,  and  know  that  nature  answered  my  appeal  and  healed 
the  ravages  of  weeks  spent  in  the  complexities  of  sight-seeing. 
For  1  was  refreshed  and  soothed  by  the  magic  of  change,  the 
inertia  of  repose,  as  well  as  being  charmed  and  interested  by 
the  peasant  life  about  me,  picturesque  looking  shepherds, 
children  with  wonderful  eyes  looking  shyly  at  me  from  locks 
all  a-tangle  from  wanton  winds,  utterly  unlike  children  seen 
in  our  own  country. 

Women  in  bright  colored  garments  were  singing  as  they 
ever  are  here,  snatches  of  song,  natural  as  wildbird  notes, 
while  they  gathered  the  fragole — wood  berries — in  the  warm 
spring  day — and  I,  idle,  yet  loving  it,  for  it  is  an  idleness 
that  absorbs  the  things  panoramic  about  me  and  leaves  its 
influence  whether  I  will  or  not;  for  I  simply  absorb  the  beauty 
of  the  place,  the  strange  people  and  their  simple  life  about 
me. 

The  days  go  too  fast.  On  one  such  as  I  write,  I  feel  how 
grand  it  would  be  if  only  a  modern  Joshua  could  stay  the  all 
too  fleeting  hours,  and  not  let  the  glorious  vision  fade  too 
quickly.  For  on  days  like  this,  when  I  am  away  from  Rome 
and  the  ruins  that  exhaust  while  they  interest  and  instruct, 
outside  her  walls  I  live  not  so  much  in  bygone  days  as 
in  the  present.  The  charm  of  the  now  suffices  for  me.  I 
am  a  sort  of  shuttle  weaving  beautiful  fabrics  for  memory's 
halls,  the  woof  of  fancy  and  web  of  reality  of  the  past  and 
present,  busy  and  happy  in  my  weaving. 

O  Aileen  dear,  this  is  living,  not  existing  as  I  was  before 
I  came  here.  Happy  days!  Of  some  I  write  you  and  today 
especially  1  wish  to  describe  to  you,  for  I  have  felt  the  per 
fumed  winds  of  the  young  spring  sweeter  for  me  to  breathe 


i44  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

than  the  air  in  cells  and  catacombs,  which  other  nostrils 
breathed  long  ago.  While  the  churches  are  interesting,  there 
is  a  smell  of  decay  within  their  walls;  they  do  not  take  hold 
of  me  or  make  me  feel  the  nearness  of  heaven  that  possesses 
me  up  here  in  the  hills. 

Among  the  groves  one  does  not  think  of  evil,  or  of  the 
satan-haunted  pictures  around  the  sacred  altars.  In  the  woods 
one  imbibes  the  gospel  of  the  Christ  of  love,  and  here  I  feel, 
know,  and  can  understand  the  Creator  far  better  than  in 
human  erected  temples.  I  listen  to  Him  through  the  sweet 
bird-notes  that  come  rioting  and  rollicking  in  sweetness  to 
my  thievish  ears,  which  hoard  the  music  while  my  soul  rejoices 
in  the  tender  melody  long  after  the  vibrant  air  is  silent.  I 
am  absorbed  in  sweet  reveries  of  the  goodness  of  the  Maker 
of  the  universe,  that  passes  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness, 
a  delicious,  dreamless  "forgetery,"  a  short,  sweet  eternity  of 
peace. 

Then  music,  sweet,  changing  and  elusive,  as  the  perfumes 
of  the  damp  mosses  and  tiny  woodland  flowers,  awoke  me  to 
consciousness,  a  wordless  music  that  came  from  the  upper 
world  as  if  it  might  be  the  songs  of  seraphim  and  cherubim. 
It  was  only  the  still,  small  voices  of  the  woods,  of  insect  life, 
and  of  leaves  whispering  to  each  other,  nature  singing  her 
self  to  sleep  in  the  dim  evening  hours,  lulling  me  to  semi-for- 
getfulness,  once  again  by  the  spirit  of  peace.  Then  a  low, 
ominous  sound  thrilled  me  like  an  electric  shock.  I  arose 
from  the  mossy  seat  and  looking  westward  saw  a  shower  in 
the  distance,  showing  luminant  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  broke 
through,  and  the  long  lances  of  rain  shot  fiercely  down  on  the 
dry  earth.  The  clouds  advanced  and  retreated,  then  piled 
fiercely  together  like  contending  armies,  while  heaven's  artil 
lery  boomed  in  active  encounter;  the  deep-toned  thunder 
crashing,  breaking  and  sundering  the  black  clouds,  while 
flashes  of  lightning  came  with  blinding  fury,  zigzaging  across 
the  heavens,  short,  sharp,  decisive,  awe-inspiring,  and  grand 
in  its  power  and  uncontrolled  energy.  Then  the  clouds 
parted,  the  mutterings  died  away,  and  the  heavens  washed 
clean  were  one  great  sapphire  above  me. 

The  majesty  of  nature,  alluring,  inspiring,  commanding  in 
threatening  messages  from  the  clouds  was  soothing  later  in 


FROM   THE   WORLD  145 

the  musical  cadences  of  the  rustling  pine-tops  far  above  me. 
Strong  in  the  strength  of  years,  they  tell  of  the  days  gone  by 
that  helped  them  to  bear  the  storms,  and  they  seem  to  reach 
out  protecting  arms  to  the  weak  mortal  beneath  them  who 
realizes  in  her  weakness  that  the  best  that  is  within  her  has 
been  culled  from  nature,  whose  lessons  have  sunk  deep  into 
her  heart,  and  the  wisdom  learned  in  the  haunts  of  the  wild 
have  been  more  than  all  else.  And  then  the  herds  with  tink 
ling  bells  descended  the  trails.  Evening  flung  her  mantle 
over  the  Campagna ;  laughter  and  song  from  the  lower  levels 
reached  me,  mingled  with  the  sweet-sounding  bells  of  unseen 
churches;  Pan,  it  seemed,  was  playing  upon  his  pipes  in  the 
sweet  wildness,  but  it  was  only  the  vesper  hour — "gratia 
plena" —  until  the  shadows  dropped  and  night  closed  about 
the  contadina,  and  my  day,  carissima,  is  done. 

All  these  things  have  rested  and  made  me  ready  to  con 
tinue  my  rambles  in  Rome.  I  visited  some  places  for  the  last 
time,  have  seen  the  crimson  blossoms,  the  violets  and  honey 
suckle,  earth's  dear,  familiar  flowers,  growing  in  the  Pope's 
gardens,  as  they  do  by  the  humblest  cottage,  and  my  weary 
feet  once  again  wandered  through  those  miles  of  halls  and 
rooms  in  the  Vatican  stored  with  treasures  gathered  from 
all  over  the  world.  I  loitered  once  more  under  the  colonnades 
and  listened  to  the  splash  of  the  fountains,  saw  the  green, 
mossy  circle  made  by  their  spray,  and  looked  my  last  upon 
the  old  obelisk  and  bronze  gate.  I  watched  the  people  surg 
ing  through  the  narrow  streets,  and  peered  into  doors  black 
ened  by  time  and  smoke,  cheerless  and  dreary  within.  The 
cold  stone  floors  looked  damp  and  gloomy.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  people  love  the  streets  and  the  sunshine  in  Rome.  I 
watched  the  throngs  go  by  from  Monte  Cavallo  guarded  by 
the  horsemen,  and  from  the  Via  Sistina,  down  below  the  long 
flight  of  steps  where  are  the  models,  I  saw  the  crowds  around 
the  old  marble  boat  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  where  are  great 
heaps  of  flowers,  anemones,  narcissus,  and  other  early  spring 
flowers,  which  glisten  with  the  spray  from  the  sparkling, 
splashing  up-gush  of  waters  where  the  beggars  shyly  ask  for 
soldi.  Fruit-sellers  crying,  "fragola,  fragola,"  and  the  wood- 
carriers  with  wisplike  bundles  of  firewood  calling  out,  "fas- 
cinotti,"  come  in  the  hushed  twilight  to  me.  All  these  will 


i46  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

come  to  my  mental  vision  and  hearing  long  after  I  have  left 
them  behind  me. 

I  have  stood  for  the  last  time  on  the  Palatine  and  Aven- 
tine  Hills,  have  mused  on  the  crumbling  seats  of  the 
Colosseum,  whose  broken  walls  still  house  the  old  horrors 
that  have  been  enacted  within  their  enclosed  spaces,  and 
strangely  enough  while  in  the  forum  certain  words  uttered 
by  Caesar  came  to  me.  "After  death  there  is  nothing." 
While  it  was  his  ultimatum,  and  because  of  his  knowledge 
of  the  crookedness  in  human  nature,  his  wish,  perhaps,  was 
father  to  the  thought.  Most  of  us  believe  and  hope  for 
something  different,  and  while  we  may  have  a  theological 
justification  for  every  sin,  we  formulate  excuses  for  most  of 
them  and  trust  for  an  even  balance  for  the  few  good  deeds 
performed.  If  there  were  nothing  after  death,  how  worse 
than  useless  the  blood  of  martyrs!  There  must  be  a  reckon 
ing  in  the  unknown  country  toward  which  we  are  all  journey 
ing,  those  mysterious  regions  which  are  our  ultimate  destina 
tion,  the  destination  vague  and  uncertain  as  we  go,  yet 
hoping  and  trusting  that  there  will  be  something  in  the 
undiscovered  country  toward  which  we  hopefully  and  trust 
fully  travel.  I  think  there  will  be  something  for  those  who 
deserve  it,  an  eternity  of  joy  and  happiness  in  traversing 
celestial  worlds,  wherein  there  will  be  no  troubled  recollec 
tions  of  pain,  grief  and  sorrow.  That  will  be  paradise  indeed, 
where  there  will  be  no  disillusions,  but  once  beyond  the  por 
tal,  safe  from  all  the  ills  of  this  world,  its  uncertainties  and 
woes, — it  will  be  heaven  indeed. 

EDITH. 


XVII 

"Like  the  stalks  of  wheat  in  the  fields 

So  flourish  and  wave  in  the  mind  of  man, 

His  thoughts. 

But  the  delicate  fancies  of  love 
Are  like  gay  little  intermingled  blossoms 
Of  red  and  blue  flowers." 

Jack,  old  fellow,  your  notes  have  been  so  confoundedly 
brief  lately  that  I  am  minded  to  follow  suit  instead  of  sending 
such  lengthy  epistles;  still,  I  know  your  devotion  to  business, 
so  am  disposed  to  be  lenient  and  humor  you,  especially  when 
you  flatter  me  and  say  that  you  are  seeing  things  through 
my  eyes,  without  the  time  or  trouble  of  traveling.  This 
appeases  me,  as  you  knew  it  would. 

I  trust  I  may  not  have  read  and  understood  your  letters 
clearly,  wherein  you  speak  of  Wilder  and  Ruth.  Surely  Bert 
could  not  neglect  that  dear  little  wife  of  his  so  soon  after 
marriage.  They  seemed  very  happy.  I  thought  theirs  would 
be  the  ideal  marriage  and  their  home  one  in  every  sense  of  the 
word  for  themselves  and  their  friends.  I  know  he  was  always 
selfish  in  regard  to  his  own  pleasures  and  amusements;  that 
he  brooked  restraint  and  never  allowed  anyone  to  interfere 
with  his  plans  for  enjoyment;  also,  that  he  was  at  times 
rather  apt  to  be  careless  as  to  what  the  dear  world  might  say, 
but  he  is  such  a  charming  host  and  companion  that  he  has 
always  been  very  popular. 

He  seemed  madly  in  love  with  Ruth  and  I  thought  when 
they  were  married  he  would  make  a  model  husband.  Strange 
the  difference  between  pursuit  and  possession — here  is  Fred 
wasting  hours,  when  he  should  be  asleep  thinking  over  his 
life's  tragedy,  as  he  believes  it,  because  he  loves  a  girl  who  is 
probably  not  losing  any  sleep  over  him.  And  Wilder,  now 
that  the  excitement  of  pursuit  has  settled  down  into  the 
monotony  of  possession,  is  restive,  and  is  easing  the  knot  of 
the  matrimonial  halter.  It  makes  me  better  satisfied  with 
my  life  when  I  see  what  effect  a  large  dose  of  love  seems  to 

147 


i48  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

have  on  some  people.      I  think,   however,   Fred  is  getting 
over  the  veal  stage,  and  have  hopes  that  he  will  not  lose  so ; 
much  sleep  as  he  has. 

We  have  met  some  charming  people  here.  There  is  a  girl 
whose  portrait  he  has  painted,  who  is  delightful  if  you  could 
see  her  and  hear  her  soft  voice  in  her  own  tongue,  or  her 
efforts  to  master  our  harsher  language,  1  think  even  you 
the  dear  old  busy  drone,  might  say  good-bye  to  business  and 
try  the  easy  life  I  am  living  for  a  time;  and  you  would  find 
life  all  the  sweeter  for  doing  nothing  for  a  while. 

And  now  I  must  tell  you  something  further  of  our  sojourn 
here.  The  suburbs  of  the  City  of  Mexico  were  more  attrac 
tive  to  me  than  the  city,  interesting  as  it  is.  Electric  cars 
running  with  the  speed  of  railroad  trains  carry  one  to  many  j 
a  charming  spot.  I  recall  one  afternoon  at  Guadalupe,  where 
is  the  one  church  in  the  republic  that  has  not  been  despoiled 
of  its  gold  and  jewels.  It  is  built  where  there  was  a  pagan 
sanctuary  over  1,000  years  ago.  The  Spaniards  destroyed 
it,  and  a  vision  appeared  to  a  faithful  Indian.  The  result 
beginning  in  the  fifteenth  century  is  shown  now  in  this  beauti 
ful  church.  The  Mother  of  Christ  is  now  knelt  to  instead  of 
the  heathen  mother  of  gods. 

David,  the  Minstrel  King,  never  yearned  for  the  water  of 
the  Well  of  Bethlehem  that  is  "by  the  gate"  with  greater 
longing  than  do  these  poor  devotees  who  come  from  remote 
parts  of  the  republic.  A  pilgrimage  of  one  hundred  miles 
is  made  by  many  yearly  to  the  shrine,  to  drink  the  water  of 
the  magic  well  at  the  church  of  the  Guadalupe.  They  climb 
the  hill, 

"The  world's  great  altar  stairs 

That    slope    through    darkness    up    to    God," 

and  worship  in  the  sanctuary,  the  earth-worn  and  weary,  in 
rags,  by  the  thousands,  even  as  the  Russian  and  other  pilgrims 
go  now  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher.  A  long  flight 
of  stone  steps  leads  up  to  the  summit  of  the  hill.  A  chapel 
and  cemetery  are  now  where  the  traditional  Indian  gathered 
the  miraculous  flowers.  I  looked  from  this  hill,  the  holiest 
shrine  in  Mexico,  and  saw  the  great  cathedral's  towers  and 
the  domes  and  minarets  of  countless  monestaries,  churches 
and  convents.  There  was  Lake  Tezcuco,  a  shimmering  misty 


FROM   THE   WORLD  149 

blue,  other  lakes  and  villages,  Chapultepec  and  the  lava  beds 
in  the  distance,  from  whence  came  the  sacrificial  stones;  an 
entrancing  view  from  every  point  one  may  look.  Rimmed 
by  mountains,  the  Valley  of  Mexico  is  unsurpassed  by  any  I 
have  seen. 


Different  thoughts  were  mine  when  I  visited  other  suburbs 
— Churubusco,  Tacubaya,  Chapultepec,  San  Angel  and 
Coyoacan,  in  them  is  such  a  blending  of  the  old  and  the 
modern.  What  pictures  and  phantoms  of  the  past  crowded 
my  mind  as  I  wandered  along  green  lanes,  under  old  gray 
walls  and  arches  that  looked  down  upon  Cortez  when  he 
lived  there  and  at  Coyoacan,  where  he  established  the  seat 
of  government  in  1521.  His  dwelling  is  here  and  the  church 
where  he  worshipped — whether  before  or  after  he  murdered 
his  wife,  I  know  not — is  here  also,  grand  in  its  gray  old  age. 
Its  dome,  tower,  arch  and  columns  gave  me  a  moment  in  the 
Orient  and  a  breath  from  Moscow.  Arched  entrances  show 
ing  the  acanthus  leaves  sent  me  back  to  Greece.  The  Cor 
inthian  and  Ionic  were  suggested,  and  stray  bits  of  Byzantine 
carvings  elbow  the  modern  steam  and  electric  cars. 

My  mind  slipped  down  the  centuries  from  Cortez  the 
Conqueror,  to  a  later  time.  I  thought  of  Scott  and  his  resist 
less  soldiers  who  saw  these  same  scenes,  the  grim  old  walls 
and  lanes  leading  away  into  the  country,  that  doubtless  were 
radiant  then,  as  now  in  the  wealth  of  vine  and  bloom.  The 
gray  mosses  on  the  sunless  side  of  the  stone  walls  speak  of 
age  and  gloom;  the  flowers,  of  the  present  only. 

Scott  was  victorious  at  Churubusco  and  Chapultepec, 
sweeping  on  into  the  City  of  Mexico.  I  could  scarcely 
imagine,  however,  that  this  sleepy  old  town,  along  whose 
rough,  stony  streets  I  heard  the  patois  and  soft  "ssh-ssh"  of 
the  donkey  boys,  and  the  "pff-pff"  of  sandaled  feet  on  the 
rough,  uneven  streets,  could  ever  have  echoed  the  tread  of 
the  intrepid  soldiers  under  Scott,  Lee  and  Grant,  or  that  the 
sound  of  drums  and  music,  with  flags — our  own — were  ever 
heard  and  seen  here  in  this  perfumed  atmosphere  where  the 
cloistered  nooks  bespeak  devotion  and  prayer.  Yet  I  know 
that  in  this  region  Grant  and  Lee  fought  side  by  side,  endur- 


150  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ing  all  the  hardships  of  war  for  one  flag — the  stars  and 
stripes — united  in  one  common  cause,  yet  destined  to  meet 
not  many  years  after  under  separate  flags  in  a  war  whose 
equal  the  world  has  seldom  if  ever  known. 

At  Churubusco,  where  a  battle  was  fought  in  1847,  once 
stood  the  city  of  Huitzilopochtlih  and  a  temple  built  by  the 
Aztecs.  If  there  were  evil  spirits  and  demons  as  they  imagined 
in  those  days,  they  have  departed  to  fitter  howling  places 
long  ago,  for  what  was  the  city  once  is  a  lazy,  quiet  place  now. 
In  this  vicinity  are  raised  most  of  the  flowers  that  supply  the 
markets  of  the  city.  There  are  vegetable  gardens  also, 
though  there  seemed  but  little  attention  paid  to  fruit  trees, 
a  good  apple  being  a  novelty  here,  but  the  fields  of  the 
maguey  plants  are  in  fine  condition.  There  are  various 
fruits,  including  the  cactus  which  I  found  rather  insipid. 
Melons  and  cucumbers  grow  on  trees  in  Mexico,  and  it  is  a 
pity  they  have  not  found  a  potato  tree.  The  average  Mexican 
potatoes  are  about  the  size  of  a  large  marble  and  sell  six  for 
a  centavo ;  green  beans  and  tiny  peppers  also  sell  by  the  half 
dozen.  I  noticed  that  peas  were  always  shelled,  so  the  cus 
tomer  knows  what  he  is  buying.  There  were  in  the  market 
great  bunches  of  grass  which  the  natives  used  for  food;  also 
wild  sweet  potatoes,  stringy  and  unpalatable,  which  were 
freely  offered  for  us  to  taste. 

At  San  Angel,  another  pretty  suburb  visited,  we  were 
invited  to  partake  of  the  afternoon  feast,  tortillas,  pulque  and 
tamales.  There  was  in  the  air  an  odor  of  meat,  cooked  and 
uncooked.  I  saw  the  heads  and  feet  of  animals  and  fowls 
cooked,  and  saw  people  buying  the  entrails  for  food — noth 
ing  is  wasted  here.  No,  we  did  not  care  for  any  burnt  offer 
ings  that  day,  so  politely  declined  the  generosity  of  the  suave 
owner  of  the  eating-place.  San  Angel,  however,  is  very 
pretty  and  the  summer  resort  for  the  wealthy  of  the  city. 
Tacubaya  vies  with  it  in  lovely  gardens,  parks,  trees  and 
flowers — wealth  and  poverty  side  by  side.  Nowhere  can  be 
seen  stronger  contrasts — wealth  in  its  magnificence,  and  pov 
erty  in  all  its  grimness;  the  walled-in  streets,  the  overburdened 
poor  in  the  dust — such  a  medley — Palestine  and  Damascus, 
the  East  without  the  fez ;  for  here,  as  there,  no  matter  how 
rough  and  thorny  the  way,  gaunt  poverty  stalks  along  with 


FROM   THE   WORLD  151 

the  sore  and  bleeding  feet  of  these  wretched  peons.     Some 
one  wrote  that  Christ  was  only  possible  in  a  barefoot  coun- 


HARVESTING    THE    CORN    IN    MEXICO. 


try,  and  that  the  few  who  wore  shoes  murdered  him.     Will 
one  ever  arise  to  aid  and  uplift  the  poor  of  Mexico? 

And  then  from  the  terraces  and  bastions  of  Chapultepec 
where  the  president  lives  in  summer,   I  looked  out  over  a 


1 52  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

grandly  beautiful  country,  and  thought  that  all  things  are 
possible.  I  know  that  the  country  has  improved  more  in  the 
past  decade  than  in  one  hundred  years  before.  I  know,  too, 
that  American  and  English  capital  is  revolutionizing  the 
country.  Under  such  regime  who  shall  stay  the  hand  of 
progress?  Hopefully  I  dismissed  the  thoughts  that  were 
repulsive  and  enjoyed  the  magnificent  views.  I  loitered  along 
the  terrace,  and  saw  the  modern  work  due  to  Maximilian— 
the  beautiful  marble  and  Pompeiian  style.  Fitting  indeed  is 
this  place  for  the  president;  and  what  memories  cluster 
around  it,  for  it  has  been  a  royal  retreat  for  the  rulers  for  six 
hundred  years.  Through  the  groves  of  cypress  trees  and 
prowling  through  the  grounds  far  below  that  jewel  set  in 
porphyry,  I  saw  the  castle  two  hundred  feet  above  the  plain. 
1  know  that  this  was  once  an  island  in  Lake  Tezcuco,  which 
is  now  several  miles  distant.  On  the  eastern  side  are  traces 
of  Aztec  carvings.  High  up  on  the  summit  there  was  a  temple, 
and  on  this  hill  is  a  cave  which  was  a  sanctuary  of  one  of 
their  Gods — the  Spirit  of  the  Murmuring  Spring.  How 
those  old  pagans  loved  nature !  Their  gods  were  many. 
There  were  Gods  of  Air,  Water,  Fire,  etc.  All  were  wor 
shiped  and  although  their  way  was  not  ours,  we,  who  love 
nature,  have  something  approaching  reverence  in  our  breasts 
for  those  dear  old  heathens.  On  another  side  of  this  his 
torical  hill  is  a  spring  which  supplies  a  portion  of  the  water 
for  the  City  of  Mexico.  Along  the  paseo  at  the  foot 
of  the  slope,  are  the  arches  of  the  stone  aqueducts. 

I  saw  the  cadets  of  this  West  Point  of  Mexico,  and  then 
I  paused  at  a  place  which  the  cadets  and  the  nation  honor, 
and  plucked  a  spray  of  myrtle  that  twines  about  the  shaft 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  erected  in  memory  of  the  brave  cadets 
who  fell  in  battle  at  the  storming  of  Chapultepec.  We  rested 
a  while  in  the  Plaza  de  Cartegena,  where  are  trees  and  foun 
tains  and  seats  for  the  weary,  and  watched  the  throngs  of 
people.  We  heard  the  music  throb  in  the  dusky  afternoon, 
then  went  back  to  the  city  of  fabulous  wealth  and  dreamed 
of  its  strange  past. 

Life  is  enjoyed  by  contrasts,  and  when  weary  with  his 
torical  places  and  Aztec  horrors,  we  found  relief  in  the 
modern  and  up-to-date  shops.  There  are  jewelry  establish- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  153 

ments  vicing  with  New  York's  best  and  the  Celaya  candy  is 
equal  to  Huyler's.  Fairylike  confections  come  from  Paris. 
The  best  of  imported  articles  are  here,  for  there  is  great 
wealth  in  the  city  as  well  as  great  poverty. 

No  matter  how  hurried  the  tourist  may  be,  he  soon  becomes 
acquainted  with  the  noon-hour  habit  and  knows  that  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  the  shops  are  closed.  It  is  usually  like 
holiday  during  the  noon  siesta.  An  American  who  is  in 
business  here  said  it  was  hard  to  become  accustomed  to  the 
idea  of  closing  the  shop  and  taking  a  noon  nap,  but  that 
after  acquiring  the  habit  he  did  not  know  how  he  could  live 
without  it;  that  it  was  better  for  them  all,  and  the  rest  was 
made  up  in  zeal  and  energy  afterward.  How  well  we  might 
emulate  them  in  this  respect  in  California. 

The  noon-hour  I  often  enjoyed  in  the  Plaza,  musing  on 
the  life  about  me.  The  thrifty  venders  of  all  sorts  of  wares 
and  fruits,  nuts,  narancas  (oranges),  cakes  and  sweets  in 
almost  every  namable  form,  plied  their  vocation.  I  watched 
the  crowd  on  the  cars,  which  are  arranged  for  different 
classes — a  fine  thing  in  this  country — though  the  tercera,  or 
third  class,  in  the  railroad  trains  is  devoid  of  comfort. 
The  seats  are  placed  lengthwise  in  the  cars,  and  are  mere 
benches  without  backs.  The  carriages  also  have  different 
colored  flags  denoting  the  price  per  hour.  Hence,  there 
is  no  haggling  about  prices  nor  any  mistakes. 

We  haunted  the  shops  for  curios,  photographs,  etc.,  and 
rarely  ever  tired  of  the  markets,  learning  something  from 
their  primitive  ways,  and  more  still  of  the  products  and  the 
unknown  fruits  and  roots  used  by  the  natives.  Often  In 
my  saunterings  I  saw  priests  going  the  rounds  of  the  markets 
collecting  money  from  the  poor  creatures  who  seemed  to 
have  barely  sufficient  to  keep  life  in  their  shrunken  bodies. 
I  spoke  to  a  girl  who  was  so  shriveled  that  she  looked  like  a 
nubbin  among  a  lot  of  full-grown  ears  of  corn.  The  frame 
was  there,  but  she  had  never  filled  out. 

"Why  do  you  give  him  money  when  you  seem  to  need  it 
so  badly?"  I  asked. 

"We  do  not  want  to,  but  are  forced  to  give  it,"  was  the 
answer. 


154  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

And  the  itching  palm  of  the  church  takes  from  the  poor, 
who  must  give,  though  poor,  that  which  is  so  badly  needed 
in  this,  for  a  promise  of  something  better  in  the  next  world. 
So  in  the  name  of  the  gentle  Christ,  whose  thought  was  al 
ways  for  the  needy,  these  priests  in  high  huts  prance  through 
the  markets  and  glean  what  they  do  not  obtain  in  the  churches. 
Some  of  these  people  are,  I  think,  from  their  mutterings  and 
evident  discontent,  learning  to  do  without  the  middlemen  to 
some  extent.  They  are  married  without  their  aid,  and  are 
born  in  unofficial  capacity;  but,  so  far,  as  a  rule,  are  afraid 
to  pass  over  to  the  unknown  without  aid  of  especially  ap 
pointed  agents.  Down  here  they  need  about  all  they  can 
get  in  this  life  to  make  it  endurable,  and  if  the  Church  would 
levy  taxes  upon  the  rich  and  spare  the  poor,  life  would  not 
be  complex,  but  simple.  And  instinct,  true  now  and  unerr 
ing,  as  when  one  of  earth's  poor  recognized  the  Divinity 
and  poured  the  precious  ointment  upon  His  head — it  was 
the  learned  and  respectable  lawyer  who  reproved  her,  and 
who  was  economical — will  lead  them  aright,  and  teachings 
will  be  more  effective  if  given  freely  without  asking  for 
money.  Surely,  if  those  in  authority  can  promise  them  a 
free  pass  across  the  borderland,  let  them  have  the  benefit 
without  money  and  without  price.  Was  it  not  Heine  who 
wrote : 

''The  human  spirit  has  its  rights  and  will  not  be  rocked  to  sleep  by 
the  lullaby  of  church  bells. 

"Men  will  no  longer  be  put  off  with  promissory  notes  upon  heaven." 

Down  here  in  the  tropics  all  the  sweetness,  all  the  music 
and  lullabys,  that  "can  be  given  to  soothe  existence,  are 
sorely  needed. 

FRANK. 


XVIII 

"I  remember  the  bright  spring  garlands, 

The  gold  that  spangled  the  green 
And  the  purple  on  fairy-far  lands, 

And  the  white  and  red  blooms  seen 
From  the  spot  where  we  last  lay  dreaming 

Together,  you  and  I, 
The  soft  grass  beneath  us  gleaming, 

Above  us  the  great  grave  sky." 

As  WRITTEN  IN  THE  JOURNAL  BY  ALICE 

And  so  we  came  from  the  enchanting  region  back  to  the 
road  bounded  by  two  glittering  threads  of  steel,  on  and 
on  rushing  back  to  San  Francisco,  the  city  by  the  sea,  which 
for  some  unknown  reason  I  dreaded.  Those  few  days  of 
undivided  companionship  with  the  man  I  adored  made 
me  dread  the  thought  of  returning  home,  where  I  knew 
there  must  be  hours  of  loneliness  when  business  would 
claim  my  husband,  as  it  had  in  the  short  time  I  was  with  him 
before  going  to  Alaska. 

Before  reaching  the  city,  my  fears  were  realized,  for  he 
drew  me  close  to  him  in  the  privacy  of  our  drawing-room 
and  said  that  we  must  plan  for  the  future. 

"Why  must  we  plan?  Is  it  not  better  to  live  each  day 
without  plans?"  I  said,  laughing  and  smoothing  his  face 
as  I  nestled  in  his  arms. 

"Far  better,  if  we  only  might,  but,  my  sweetheart,  it  is 
impossible.  We  have  been  the  merest  infants  in  wonder 
land,  now  it  is  the  hard  old  world  we  must  face  and  snatch 
what  joy  we  can  as  the  days  go  by.  Mrs.  Andrews  will 
meet  us  at  the  station  in  Oakland.  I  shall  be  compelled  to 
leave  you  and  go  directly  on  to  San  Francisco.  You  will 
go  with  her  to  a  cozy  little  home  I  have  prepared  for  you, 
which  I  hope  you  will  like.  I  will  not  be  able  to  see  you  for 
a  day  or  so,  perhaps  longer;  but  as  soon  as  it  is  possible,  dear, 
I  will  come  to  you.  Now  cheer  up,  I  cannot  endure  to  see 
your  dear  eyes  dimmed  with  tears.  I  have  at  greater  cost 

155 


156  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

than  you  can  imagine  stolen  the  time  to  have  this  little  vaca 
tion  with  you.  It  has  been  worth  all  the  sacrifice,  the  worry 
and  trouble  that  has  been  greater  than  you  could  dream." 

"You  speak  of  cost — if  it  is  a  matter  of  money" — I  be 
gan,  but  he  stopped  me  with  a  gesture.  g 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  money.  There  are  more  serious 
considerations  of  which  we  will  talk  some  other  time.  It 
is  enough  for  you  to  know  now  that  I  cannot  be  with  you 
when  you  get  the  first  peep  into  your  little  home.  You  must 
love  it  for  my  sake  and  be  contented  and  happy  as  any  little 
birdie  in  its  nest.  I  am  sure  you  will  make  it  a  haven  of 
rest  for  me  when  I  come  to  you,  weary  with  my  cares;  for  I 
have  them,  my  darling,  greater  I  feel  now  since  I  love  you  so 
than  I  ever  had  before." 

There  was  such  a  look  of  anguish  in  his  eyes  that,  though 
my  heart  was  breaking  with  thought  of  separation  and  the 
sickening  sense  of  going  away  from  him,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  not  pain  him,  but  would  assume  a  cheerfulness  I  did 
not  feel.  So  I  began  asking  him  questions  about  the  house, 
if  there  was  a  piano  and  books  that  I  might  keep  employed 
while  waiting  for  him. 

"I  have  tried  to  think  of  everything  for  your  comfort," 
he  said,  "and  I  shall  look  forward  to  many  a  blissful  hour 
with  my  Alice.  She  will  sing,  play  or  read  to  me  when 
I  come.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  will  come  as  often 
as  it  is  possible.  You  must  never  doubt  that — will  you, 
my  life,  my  joy?"  he  said. 

Soothing,  caressing  me  and  bidding  me  be  of  good  cheer, 
he  turned  me  over  to  the  kind  Mrs.  Andrews  and  I  was 
hustled  away  *  *  It  was  a  very  charming  nest,  in 

deed,  that  I  found.  Evidences  of  his  care  and  love  were 
there  to  prove  his  desire  to  please,  and  I  was  delighted  with 
my  house  and  surroundings.  Away  back  from  the  city  on  a 
knoll,  peeping  out  from  clustering  vines  and  shade  trees,  the 
cottage  was  secluded  from  the  winds  and  the  world  at  large, 
hedged  in  by  roses  and  a  wilderness  of  bloom.  It  would 
have  been  heavenly  if  only  I  were  not  alone,  but  I  tried  to 
console  myself  with  the  comforting  thought  of  how  much 
happier  I  was  though  alone  than  I  was  before  I  knew  my 


FROM   THE   WORLD  157 

darling.     The  idea  of  Jane  and  of  traveling  with  her  made 
me  thank  heaven  I  had  been  spared  that  horror. 


A  letter,  dear  journal,  came  this  morning.  1  did  not 
think  I  could  endure  another  day,  though  this  is  the  second 
day  since  I  arrived. 

"My  angel,  I  know  you  wanted  some  token  this  morning. 
You  were  wondering  if  I  would  not  come.  You  were  rest 
less  yesterday,  and  last  night  your  pillow  was  wet  with  tears, 
I  know,  I  felt  them.  They  fell  into  the  quick  of  my  heart- 
how  I  wanted  to  kiss  them  away — and  though  I  cannot  come 
to  you  at  least  for  two  or  three  days  yet,  you  will  before 
long  be  safe  in  my  arms,  my  love,  my  soul!  I  will  come 
just  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can;  I  kiss  and  love  you,  sweet  one, 
be  patient  and  live  with  me  in  the  memory  of  the  happy  hours 
passed,  and  think  of  those  yet  to  come,  dear  one,  until  we 


meet.'' 


1  carried  that  letter  in  my  bosom,  read  it  until  every  word 
was  imprinted  on  my  heart,  and  then  with  the  morning  came 
another  message. 

"Is  my  bird  singing  in  her  dear  little  nest  this  morning? 
Is  her  heart  made  just  a  little  easier  by  the  written  words  of 
love  which  I  fain  would  whisper  in  her  pretty  ears,  while 
looking  into  her  love-lit  eyes.  Only  three  days,  sweetheart, 
since  we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  felt  our  hearts 
thrill  with  the  great  love  that  is  implanted  within  them;  yet 
it  seems  so  long,  so  long,  dreary  and  desolate  enough  to  have 
been  an  age  since  I  felt  the  tender  touches  of  soft  hands 
thrilling  me  with  that  inexplicable  something  which  phil 
osophy  cannot  explain  and  which  scoffs  philosophy.  The  fond 
kisses,  pure  as  love  can  make  them,  burn  upon  my  lips  which 
are  hungry  for  more. 

"Three  days!  Ah,  my  loved  one,  if  every  day  we  are 
apart  is  as  long  to  you  as  it  has  been  to  me,  we  are  both  to 
be  pitied.  We  might  have  been  spared  much  pain  and  sor 
row  had  we  never  met,  but  the  fates  decreed  that  we  meet 


i5 8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

and  the  fact  is  engraved  on  our  hearts  with  a  potency  that 
nor  time  nor  circumstances  nor  conditions  can  change.  Time 
may  alter  our  opportunities,  circumstances  may  throw  be 
tween  us  an  unspeakable  chasm,  conditions  separate  us,  but 
one  or  all  cannot  make  our  hearts  forget.  I  shall  live  on,  hope 
on  for  the  hour  when  I  may  come  to  you,  who  are  a  part  of 
me — of  my  life,  of  all  I  ever  hope  to  be.  My  dear  one,  kiss 
me  and  come  to  me  in  my  dreams  and  bless  my  lonely  heart." 


I  am  wondering,  my  silent  confidant,  what  my  love  means 
by  "unspeakable  chasm,"  and  wondering  also  why  he  does 
not  tell  me  where  his  office  is  that  I  may  write  to  him.  I 
shall  ask  him.  We  both  forgot,  I,  to  ask,  he  to  tell  me.  We 
are  very  stupid,  dear  journal,  not  to  think.  Why,  I  might 
be  very  ill  and  could  not  send  for  him.  The  thought  is 
appalling.  Mrs.  Andrews  must  know.  I  shall  ask  her.  Why 
had  I  not  thought  of  it?  No,  I  will  wait  until  he  comes.  She 
might  think  it  very  odd — as  it  would  be — for  me  to  ask 
her  my  husband's  address,  and  now  that  I  think  seriously  it 
is  odd  and  strange. 

Why  has  he  never  spoken  of  his  place  of  business?  How 
would  I  ever  have  found  him  except  for  that  chance  meet 
ing,  and  why  was  he  so  desirous  that  I  write  my  thoughts, 
my  experiences  in  traveling  in  my  journal  and  not  to  him? 
Stupid  again ! — it  was  because  he  was  coming  to  meet  me 
and  bring  me  home.  Therefore,  letters  would  not  reach  him, 
and  now — why,  he  expects  to  come  day  by  day  and  of  course 
sends  his  notes  to  keep  me  from  being  distracted,  as  I  would 
be  otherwise.  I  will  cease  to  speculate  and  go  out  in  my  rose 
garden  and  watch  the  sun's  pathway  through  the  Golden 
Gate  as  he  bids  good-bye  to  another  day,  which  is  just  one 
nearer  the  time  when  I  shall  see  my  darling.  Shall  I  never 
see  him?  Am  I  to  live  on  and  on  with  a  message  each  day? 
Tender,  loving  ones  they  are,  but  I  want  to  hold  the  hand 
that  writes,  I  want  to  look  in  the  dear  eyes  that  have  glanced 
over  the  written  words.  The  foolish  tears  would  not  be 
stayed  this  morning  when  I  read  and  knew  he  was  not  com 
ing,  instead  he  wrote: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  159 

"Heart  of  my  heart,  I  fully  expected  to  be  with  you  last 
night,  but  matters  shaped  themselves  so  that  it  was  impossible. 
My  God,  darling,  I  hope  you,  because  of  your  own  intense 
loneliness,  can  appreciate  mine.  In  the  still  hours  of  night, 
in  the  visions  of  day,  the  fond  recollections  that  none  can 
steal  from  us — of  a  orief  heaven — come  up  before  me.  How 
well  I  see  and  know  the  sweet  face,  the  lovelit  eyes,  the  beau 
tiful  mouth  and  the  little  dimple  in  the  snowy  chin;  your 
lovely,  perfect  form  in  the  springtime  of  youth  and  beauty, 
the  idol  of  my  heart  whom  I  shall  always  love,  fills  me 
with  pride.  Then  the  futility  of  my  efforts  to  come  to  you 
maddens  me.  God,  how  lonely  I  am  without  you !  The 
hours  are  void  of  comfort,  almost  of  rest,  yet,  my  own, 
not  for  worlds  would  I  have  it  changed,  unless  conditions 
were  such  that  we  be  spared  the  pain  of  a  day's  separation. 

"It  is  bitter,  but  there  is  a  balm.  Present  circumstances 
destroy  peace,  but  not  the  hope  of  the  soul;  tear  down  pur 
pose,  yet  do  not  destroy  hope ;  impede  our  meeting,  but  still 
encourage  everything  that  makes  life  worth  living.  These 
are  some  of  my  rays  of  philosophy,  but  then  I  say,  to  de 
struction  with  philosophy,  I  want  my  beauty,  my  comfort, 
my  star  of  hope,  my  Venus,  more  than  anything  else.  Yet, 
dear  little  one,  I  feel  the  quality  of  love  is  tested  by  absence. 
It  is  no  fleeting  passion,  no  trifling  fancy  that  awakes  me  from 
sleep  by  the  very  intensity  of  its  yearning  for  the  absent. 

"No  casual  attachment  breathes  the  loved  one's  name 
from  the  lips  with  the  fervor  of  a  prayer  as  regularly  as  night 
time  closes  the  eyes  and  daylight  opens  them.  I  want  you  to 
feel  that  you  are  the  sunlight  of  my  life,  my  motive,  my  guide, 
my  ambition.  To  you  I  shall  come  for  companionship  when 
I  am  sad  and  when  I  am  happy.  I  shall  turn  from  the  world 
to  you,  for  you  are  my  world,  and  nothing  shall  interfere 
if  human  effort  avails.  I  shall  keep  and  hold  you  despite 
conditions.  Sometimes  1  wonder  if  you  realize  or  attach  to 
our  love  the  gravity  that  I  do.  I  think  you  do,  for  I  know 
your  impressionable,  loving  nature, — know  what  my  presence 
and  caresses  mean  to  you,  and  knowing  this  feel  that  even  as 
it  is  we  understand  how  more  than  fortunate  we  were  in  our 
accidental  meeting  on  that  blessed,  memorable  day  when  I 


160  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

first   saw   my   little   girl  in  the   abandonment  of   a    fancied 
sorrow. 

"Good  night,  my  love,  may  your  dreams  be  as  tender  as  my 
anticipations  of  the  near  future.  I  am  coming,  sweet.  There 
are  invisible  chords  reaching  out  as  £rom  infinity  binding 
my  life  to  yours,  drawing  me  irresistibly  to  you  and  home. 
Heaven  keep  you  until  we  meet !" 


The  call  of  the  birds  came  faint  as  the  memory  of  a  sound 
as  I  sat  in  the  garden  the  following  night.  I  had  been  rest 
less  all  day,  no  letter  or  word  of  love  or  kindness  had  come. 
I  watched  and  waited  through  every  minute  of  the  long 
hours  that  dragged  along  while  my  heart  was  sick  with  long 
ings  and  dread.  My  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears  and  the 
constant  watching  for  him  whom  my  soul  loved.  What 
could  it  mean?  Was  our  married  life  to  be  like  this?  If  so, 
I  would  far  rather  die  than  live  on  in  uncertainty.  I 
could  not  endure  the  strain  of  the  suspense  of  waiting.  1  was 
so  lonely,  and  then  came  a  torrent  of  tears  that  would  not 
be  stayed.  My  frame  shook  with  a  paroxysm  of  sobs,  I  wept 
as  I  had  never  wept  before  and  until  I  was  ill,  and  Mrs. 
Andrews  coming  out,  finding  me  exhausted  and  shaken  by 
sobs,  took  me  in  her  arms  and  comforted  me  as  no  woman 
had  ever  done  since  I  felt  the  shelter  of  my  mother's  arms. 

"You  must  not  grieve,  my  dear  child.  I  think  I  under 
stand,  but  you  certainly  know  that  you  would  not  be  left  alone 
all  this  while  without  good  and  sufficient  reasons."  Then  she 
talked  in  a  soothing  voice,  cheering  and  consoling  me,  and 
added  that  I  must  not  grieve,  I  would  spoil  my  eyes;  besides 
I  was  losing  my  color.  What  should  she  say  ?  She  would  be 
sent  away  for  not  properly  caring  for  me.  This  roused  me 
immediately. 

"I  will  not  have  it,"  I  cried;  "if  you  go,  I  will  go,  too. 
You  are  kinder  to  me  than  anyone  has  ever  been — except 
somebody  we  both  know" — and  she  smiled  cheerfully. 

"Now,  you  must  brighten  up  and  I  will  fetch  you  some  tea 
out  here.  It  will  do  you  good." 

After  a  while  I  heard  her  coming  as  I  lay  back  with  closed 
eyes,  trying  to  steady  my  shaken  nerves;  then  a  hand  was 


FROM   THE   WORLD  161 

placed  over  my  eyes  and  a  voice  whispered:  "Are  you  dream 
ing?"  And  then  the  dreams  came  true:  uAnd  the  morning 
and  the  evening  was  the  first  day." 

Truly,  it  was  the  first  day — the  day  of  days  in  my  new 
home,  when  every  hour  was  a  string  of  pearls,  white  and 
beautiful,  because  we  two  wandered  through  the  shaded 
paths,  where  wild  roses  grew,  and  the  faint  odors  came  from 
the  wild  grapevines  among  the  hedges;  gathering  flowers, 
singing  snatches  of  song,  for  I  was  so  glad  and  light-hearted 
it  seemed  impossible  that  it  was  only  yesterday  I  was  so 
wretched.  We  would  sit  and  look  out  over  the  dun-colored 
hills,  now  sun-kissed  and  brown,  which  extended  for  miles,  girt 
in  by  trees  showing  dimly  through  a  haze  looking 
like  old  blue  delft.  Great  round  heaps  of  straw  piled  up 
after  the  threshing  machine  had  sifted  the  wheat  from  the 
straw  lay  here  and  there  with  a  circle  ploughed  around  them 
for  safety  from  fires.  Certain  little  mounds  and  innumerable 
tiny  lines  crossing  and  running  threadlike  from  the  ditches 
to  these  stacks  showed  that  the  industrious  ground-squirrels 
had  improved  the  golden  hours  of  the  harvest  time,  and  had 
been  storing  up  the  plump  grains  of  wheat  for  their  winter 
of  content. 

In  the  sultry  heat  of  noon  we  rested,  watching  the  herds 
grazing  on  the  yellow  stubble,  while  the  saucy  magpies  chat 
tered  and  quarreled  over  our  intrusion.  The  upward  rush 
of  air,  like  the  breath  of  an  invisible  presence,  came  in  cool 
refreshing  gusts  from  the  depths  far  below  us,  palpable, 
changing  odors  came  in  little  whiffs,  different  from  the 
balsam  of  the  pines, — it  was  the  air  from  the  ocean  bearing 
with  its  salty  freshness  the  mingled  odors  of  the  land  and 
sea,  penetrating  the  dim  twilight  of  the  forest,  where  the 
pale  green  leaves  of  the  eucalyptus  shimmered  and  glittered 
like  jewels  in  the  sun;  the  strong,  pungent  smell  mixed  with 
the  aromatic  breath  of  the  pines  went  to  the  head,  and  I, 
drinking  in  the  delicious  nectar  of  love,  was  not  troubling 
about  future  thirst  or  possible  dregs.  It  was  the  day,  the 
hour,  the  now  of  life,  that  sufficed  for  me  then,  and  1  simply 
reveled  in  the  voices  of  the  woods,  the  mingling  of  sounds  of 
whirring  insects  and  bird-notes  with  the  soft,  sweet  under 
tone  of  the  music  of  winds  among  the  trees.  All  these  with 


1 62  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

an  enveloping  atmosphere  of  love  made  paradise  here  on 
earth  seem  not  only  a  possible  but  a  real  thing.  The  demon 
of  fear  had  no  place  in  my  thoughts  during  those  happy 
hours.  I  was  living  one  hour  at  a  time.  The  untried  future 
was  far  away,  why  think  of  it?  The  past,  the  present,  eter 
nity — why,  I  was  living  in  all  three  as  much  as  I  ever  should, 
possessing  what  I  had,  and  safe  in  the  arms  of  him  I  adored. 
There  was  nothing  beyond,  unless  a  new  light  might  be  added 
to  my  mental  vision  as  the  years  unfolded. 

We  watched  from  our  rose-garden  the  light  grow  dim  un 
til  the  land  became  but  a  reminiscence  and  the  edges  of  the 
bay  and  the  sky  were  welded  in  a  cobalt  vagueness.  Above 
us  were  the  star-girt  silence  of  the  heavens  and  the  beautiful 
glittering  embroidery  of  the  myriads  of  stars  in  the  "un 
peopled  spaces."  How  do  we  know  they  are  unpeopled  or 
void?  We  revel  in  fancies  and  talk  of  our  love  and  I  say 
that  I  am  thinking  of  Merope,  the  lost  Pleiad  and  I  know 
too  well  that  amid  all  the  glory  of  the  heavens  I,  too,  would 
have  cheerfully  resigned  that  glittering  field  of  beauty  for  the 
love  of  my  heart.  And  he  folding  me  to  him,  kissing  and 
thanking  me  for  the  expression  of  my  regard  for  him  said: 

"You  would  do  all  you  say,  resign  heaven  and  earth  for  the 
sake  of  my  love?" 

"I  would  do  so  and  more  if  it  were  possible.  Your  love 
is  heaven  itself  to  me.  It  may  be  that  it  is  not  wise  to  love 
you  as  I  do,  but  better  unwisely  than  never  to  have  known 
what  love  means.  You  opened  Pandora's  box  for  me  and 
love  and  hope — the  purest  and  best  gift  of  all  the  goddesses- 
came  into  my  heart,  blessing  it,  enriching  it,  giving  it  a 
domain,  rich  and  fabulous,  the  kingdom  of  love,  of  sweet 
ness,  bathed  in  golden  rays  that  gild  the  visionary  hilltops 
which  surround  the  fair  kingdom  wherein  love  palpitates  in 
the  air  and  whispers  sweet  suggestions  to  the  amorous  winds 
and  a  smiling,  flame-winged  Eros  hovers  over  the  fair  land, 
a  land  which  is  mostly  in  silence,  for  the  language  of  the 
soul  is  silence,  heart  to  heart,  and  lips  to  lips,  dear  one,  we 
are  blessed  indeed  in  our  domain.  We  are  more  wise  than 
Solomon,  and  richer  than  barbarian  kings;  for  we  possess  the 
sacred  fire  that  fills  our  hearts,  love  that  completes  unity,  that 


FROM   THE   WORLD  163 

shall  endure  for  all  times,  and  I  think  shall  burn  brightly 
when  yonder  evening  star  shall  have  ceased  to  shine." 

"My  fanciful  darling,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  believe  with 
you.  I  once  thought  I  loved.  It  is  the  counterfeit  that  burns 
brightest ;  but  a  deep,  true  love  is  not  for  show ;  its  flame  may 
be  dull,  but  its  life  is  unchangeable.  It  burns  like  the  lamps 
before  the  Holy  of  Holies — strong  and  steady,  but  never 
wavers  or  falters.  Our  love  has  blossomed  into  beauty,  and 
its  beauty  will  be  lasting  and  eternal  I  trust.  The  time  may 
come  when  you  will  doubt,  for  the  serpent  entered  Eden,  you 
know ;  but  remember  this,  whatever  fancies  I  may  have  had, 
whatever  fetters  may  bind  me,  you  are  the  one  love  of  my  life. 
Nothing  can  change  or  alter  the  fact  that  you  have  drawn  a 
magic  circle  about  me.  I  am  lost  in  the  maze  of  your  witch 
ing  charms  from  which  I  shall  not  try  to  extricate  myself, 
because  every  fibre  of  my  being  responds  to  your  tenderness 
and  love;  for  love  is  always  tender  and  the  soul  of  the  storms 
within  me  is  quieted.  I  feel  that  though  the  whole  world 
were  to  upbraid  and  abuse  me,  I  would  say  only  this,  love  is 
enough." 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  strangely  ?  The  whole  world  pleads 
for  love,  does  it  not?"  I  questioned.  "Then  how  could  it 
abuse  you  if  we  only  are  content?  Is  it  not  enough?  I  am 
indifferent;  I  care  only  for  you.  Let  the  world  go  by." 

"Yes,  but  I  love  you  so.  I  am  proud  of  you.  If  I  might, 
I  would  like  to  have  half  the  world  bowing  at  the  feet  of 
my  queen.  I  would  like  it  to  adore  you.  I  only  wish  I  were 
like  the  genius  of  Greece  who  fashioned  the  Venus  of  Milo, 
that  I  might  give  to  centuries  unknown  your  perfect  form, 
your  beautiful  features;  or  if  I  had  the  skill  of  Raphael,  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  then  the  whole  world  might  realize  some 
thing  of  your  glorious  hair,  your  eyes,  lips  and  rose-tinted 
flesh,  my  Madonna,  my  angel,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  at  me, 
binding  my  heart  a  little  closer  by  the  magnetism  of  his  gaze, 
until  I  lifted  my  lips  to  his,  I  was  too  happy  to  speak.  Pres 
ently  he  went  on : 

"I  care  not  for  the  future,  whatever  changes  may  come, 
whatever  ills  befall — barriers  shall  be  broken.  You  are 
mine  before  heaven,  and  I  will  have  and  hold  my  own !" 


1 64  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

He  threw  his  head  up,  stood  erect  as  if  ready  to  combat 
unseen  forces  and  his  eyes  had  a  look  of  stern  defiance  that 
made  me  shiver.  I  drew  him  down  beside  me  and  whispered 
in  his  ear: 

"I  care  nothing  for  the  world,  its  praise  or  adoration.  The 
future  is  a  blank  and  what  matters  it  if  I  am  never  known  to 
the  world.  It  is  only  you  I  love  and  care  for,  not  the  care 
less  eyes  of  the  world.  If  I  please  you  I  am  thankful,  for, 
womanlike,  I  take  delight  in  your  admiration,  and  surely  in 
this  I  may  not  be  called  vain.  I  want  to  appeal  to  all  that  is 
best  in  your  nature.  I  want  a  place  so  deep  within  your 
heart  that  when  time  shall  have  stolen  the  rosetints  from  my 
cheeks,  faded  the  gold  from  my  hair  and  shriveled  the  flesh, 
you  may  still  love  me;  may  still  care  for  the  withered  rose  in 
the  autumn  and  winter  of  life  should  we  two  be  spared  to 
test  the  rigors  of  age  and  the  change  which  comes  to  all." 

"Why  should  my  love  wane,  dear?"  he  answered.  "Will 
I  not  change  even  as  you,  and  perhaps  far  more  ?  I  am  many 
years  older,  and  besides  men  are  rarely,  if  ever  sweetened 
by  age.  Women  nearly  always  are,  and  if  we  are  content  to 
let  the  world  go  by,  satisfied  with  each  other,  not  caring  to 
achieve  much  in  life  save  this,  to  make  each  day  a  day  of  de 
light  for  ourselves,  surely  it  would  be  sufficient — no  chasing 
chimeras  or  trying  for  unattainable  things.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  write,  talk  or  preach  of  obstacles  easily  surmounted; 
that  there  are  no  summits  one  may  not  attain,  nothing  one 
may  not  achieve,  which  sounds  well,  but  is  for  most  mortals 
meaningless.  How  easily  one  may  waste  life  trying  to  reach 
a  far  off  Eiger  or  Matterhorn;  but  I  think  we  two  will  send 
ambitions  to  the  fickle  winds  and  frolic  over  our  own  foot 
hills,  which  lie  at  our  threshold,  desiring  nothing  beyond  the 
scope  of  our  vision — our  world — the  circle  of  each  other's 


arms." 


The  days  have  passed  quickly  and  the  blank  pages  are  star 
ing  reprovingly  at  me.  I  have  not  been  so  confidential  lately. 
My  life  has  been  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun.  Nothing 
but  brightness  when  my  darling  was  with  me  and  gloomy 
enough  when  he  was  not  here.  Very  soon  I  became  aware 
that  the  hardest  thing  to  learn  was  to  be  patient  when  I  was 
left  alone.  Try  as  I  might  I  could  not  be  patient  or  content. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  165 

But  I  soon  realized  that  I  must  accept  the  inevitable  with 
whatever  grace  I  possibly  could,  especially  when  I  learned 
that  my  love  was  worried,  that  something — I  knew  not  what 
—fretted  him  and  made  him  anxious,  and  the  business  which 
kept  him  away  from  me  so  much  of  the  time  grieved  and 
worried  him,  so  that  he  often  looked  quite  pale  and  worn. 
I  learned  quickly  to  try  to  soothe  and  divert  his  mind  rather 
than  to  fathom  his  cares.  He  said  to  me  once  in  answer  to 
a  question: 

"It  is  enough  for  me  to  endure  the  worry  and  fret  of  al 
most  unbearable  conditions.  You,  my  frail  little  girl,  can 
do  nothing  were  I  to  tell  you.  I  only  ask  you  to  love  and 
cheer  me  when  here.  Your  very  presence  is  a  balm,  and  I 
forget  everything  that  is  disturbing  when  you  sing  to  me.  I 
look  to  you  for  love  and  love  only  in  this  haven  of  rest,— 
here  where  we  will  not  allow  any  of  the  cares  or  burdens  of 
the  busy  old  world  beyond  our  hedges  to  enter  into  our  peace 
ful  Eden." 

What  woman  so  deeply  in  love  as  I,  would  not  have  been 
appeased  and  flattered.  I  was  his  love,  his  idol.  Here  he 
found  the  comfort  and  peace  denied  him  elsewhere,  and  with 
a  new  blossoming  joy  in  my  heart  I  strove  to  be  all  he  thought 
me,  and  though  puzzled  and  perplexed  over  something  that 
was  inexplicable  to  me  forbore  to  ask  any  questions. 

I  was  not  anxious  to  cross  over  to  the  great  city  beyond 
the  bay.  My  wants  were  easily  supplied  nearer  home;  still 
1  wondered  why  my  dear  one  seemed  to  prefer  that  I  should 
not  come.  Once  he  told  me  if  I  were  to  come  he  would  have 
no  time  to  see  me,  that  he  had  no  office  of  his  own. 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  have  never  told  me  or  allowed  me 
to  send  you  a  tiny  note?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am  the  traveling  member  of  a  large  firm;  hence 
my  necessary  absence.  You  could  never  see  me  except  by  ap 
pointment,  and  when  it  is  possible  I  will  come  to  you,  but  you 
must  strive  to  be  content  as  possible.  I  am  planning  and 
some  day  we  two  will  sail  away  to  a  distant  fairyland  on 
another  journey  and  perhaps  we  will  never  return,  never  be 
separated  all  the  rest  of  our  days.  Would  that  suit  you?" 
he  said.  "Ah,  you  need  not  answer,  your  eyes  have  told  me. 


1 66  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Do  you  know  what  wonderful  tell-tales  your  eyes  are  ?  You 
could  not  keep  a  secret  from  me  I  am  sure." 

I  laughed,  I  was  so  happy!  "We  will  find  out.  You  keep 
your  secrets,  perhaps  I  can  mine  also,"  I  said  teasingly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said  almost  fiercely. 

"I'll  tell  you,  tell  you,  some  sweet  day,"  I  sang,  and  then 
I  ran  away  and  began  to  gather  some  roses,  reaching  up  and 
endeavoring  to  catch  a  spray  of  passion-vine  that  had  climbed 
to  the  top  of  one  of  the  taller  trees  and  was  flaunting  its  gor 
geous  crimson  blossoms  far  above  the  modest  honeysuckle 
that  twined  itself  about  the  arbor  seat.  I  grew  faint  and 
dizzy,  and  feeling  that  I  was  falling,  clutched  at  the  swaying 
vine,  which,  tearing  loose  let  me  down  easily  but  for  a  mo 
ment  only,  when  I  was  snatched  up  and  I  felt  my  sweetheart's 
kisses  upon  my  lips,  while  he  chided  me  for  being  so  care 
less. 

"What  is  the  matter,  did  you  hurt  yourself?  Why,  you 
are  white,  my  darling,"  he  said,  as  he  carried  me  into  the 
house  and  summoned  Mrs.  Andrews  at  once,  doing  all  sorts 
of  foolish  impossible  things. 

"It  is  nothing,"  I  said  in  answer  to  a  look  from  Mrs. 
Andrews;  "I  was  reaching  for  a  blossom,  that  is  all,  and  I 
fell.  Don't  scold  me.  I  will  be  very  good." 

"1  think  you  need  it,  but  if  you  will  promise  to  behave 
better  in  the  future  we  may  let  you  off  this  time." 

There  were  no  more  questions  about  secrets,  perhaps  he 
wished  to  avoid  the  subject  and  the  matter  dropped.  The 
days  went  by  in  endless  procession  it  seemed.  I  simply  lived 
my  life  without  looking  forward  or  backward.  I  loved  and 
was  beloved,  and  life  seemed  a  pathway  of  roses,  for  I  lived 
among  them,  and  out  beyond  and  over  the  hills  and  far 
away,  my  willing,  eager  feet  went  in  quest  of  the  blue  lupins 
and  larkspur  and  wild  immortelles  that  were  still  beautiful  in 
the  lower  levels  and  moist  places.  The  poppies  were  thick 
?mong  the  grasses, — wide-eyed  and  bright  they  opened  their 
hearts  of  gold  when  the  sun's  yellow  disk  appeared  with  glit 
tering  rays  warm  and  bright,  blessing  every  longing  little 
sun-worshipper,  veritable  pagans,  every  one  of  them  adoring 
the  sun  god  with  unabashed  faces,  though  their  little  root- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  167 

fingers  cling  tenaciously  and  dig  deep  in  the  warm,  moist 
soil  of  the  dear  earth  mother. 

The  sweet  summer  days  have  been,  taken  all  together,  the 
dearest  and  sweetest  I  have  ever  known.  Every  day  was  so 
like  the  others  that  there  has  not  been  much  to  say  to  my 
journal.  Love  is  enough,  though  summer  is  waning.  Sweet 
resinous  smells  greet  me  now  in  my  walks  from  the  fields 
where  grow  the  wild  sunflowers,  the  golden  rod  and  perish 
able  blue  flowers  of  the  wild  chiccory  show  that  autumn  is 
here.  Overhead  the  trees  stir  in  the  breeze  and  the  yel 
low  leaves,  the  first  harbingers  of  autumn's  reaping,  fall  upon 
the  table  where  we  sit,  in  the  dusky  hour  before  the  evening 
and  the  night  kiss  hands  good  bye,  and  the  star  sentinels 
come  out  one  by  one. 

The  breath  of  the  vineyards,  musky  and  odorous  came  to 
me  from  the  over-burdened  vines  where-on  grew  the  great 
bunches  of  purple  and  flame-colored  grapes.  A  belated  black 
bird  strutted  proudly  about  the  lawn  regarding  the  arbor, 
the  table  and  occupants  sitting  there  with  disdain.  He  looked 
like  a  minister  with  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  at 
us  with  his  supercilious  yellow  eyes,  and  showing  his  indiffer 
ence  to  us  and  his  audience  of  sparrows  who  are  regular  little 
bull-dogs  in  their  battles.  They  were  very  shy  of  him.  He 
knew  his  bill  was  sharper,  he  was  bigger  and  blacker  than  the 
others  and  that  accounted  for  much  apparently  in  the  seeming 
value  he  had  of  himself.  A  whirr  of  wings  and  the  whistle 
of  a  night-hawk  overhead  made  an  instantaneous  change — 
pride  was  in  the  dust — and  he  was  gone,  a  black  streak  like 
a  fleeting  shadow,  and  the  hedge  only  knew  his  safe  retreat. 
On  that  one  evening  even  the  small  details  were  engraven  on 
memory's  tablets  never  to  be  forgotten. 

My  darling  and  I  sat  under  the  trees  long  after  the 
twilight  deepened  and  the  harvest  moon,  a  great  yellow  globe, 
arose  and  showered  the  earth  with  a  mellowing,  softening 
radiance,  driving  away  the  dark  shadows,  burnishing  the 
placid  waters  of  the  distant  bay,  and  touching  with  a  faint 
radiance  the  hills  spread  out  before  us.  A  soft,  caressing 
breeze,  freighted  with  a  ripe,  fruity  fragrance,  and  the 
pungent  smell  of  tarweed  fanned  our  faces,  bringing  a  peace 
that  sank  deep  into  our  hearts  and  the  day  was  ended — 


1 68  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

nature's  balm  in  the  winds  and  nature's  benediction  in  the 
filmy  meshes  of  moonbeams  filtering  through  the  vines,  and 
one  last  gleam  caught  from  the  smoldering  fires  in  the  western 
skies. 

I  remember  some  snatches  of  conversation  as  we  sat  there 
on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  night.  Once  my  sweetheart 
said: 

"You  cannot  imagine  the  infinite  rest  and  peace  I  find 
here  with  you  in  this  dear  little  retreat  of  ours.  I  forget  for 
a  time  the  seething  mass  of  humanity  that  is  always  over 
there,"  pointing  to  the  lights  of  the  distant  city.  "Even  with 
the  little  of  joy,  there  are  hearts  that  are  burdened,  hearts 
that  are  never  at  peace,  and  then  the  sins  that  follow  like 
sleuth-hounds  through  lives  yearning  perhaps  for  something 
different,  yet  bound  by  gyves  unbreakable  they  go  trammeled 
to  the  grave  with  unpardoned  sins.  They  are  bowed  by  teem 
ing  burdens  of  misery  here,  and  go  with  no  assurance  of  any 
thing  better  beyond,  knowing  only  the  one  indisputable  fact 
that  life  is  not  worth  the  effort  and  that  there  is  only  death 
for  recompense." 

He  seemed  to  be  in  a  strange  mood,  as  though  he  scarcely 
knew  that  he  was  speaking.  I  spoke  to  him  and  told  him  that 
he  talked  strangely. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  sins  and  sleuth-hounds. 
You  almost  frighten  me,"  and  I  crept  closer  to  his  side. 

"Heaven  grant  you  may  never  know,  my  dear  one,"  he 
said.  "Forget  my  wandering,  spoken  thoughts.  The  even 
ing  has  cast  a  strange  spell  upon  me.  Our  summer  is  gone. 
I  know  not  what  it  has  been  to  you,  but  there  is  enough  of  it 
left  in  my  soul  to  eclipse  the  glory  of  all  other  summers  known 
in  my  life,  for  there  are  memories  which  make  it  dearer, 
sweeter,  fairer  than  any  life  has  yet  given  me." 

"If  the  months  past  have  been  dear  to  you  in  your  busy 
life,  how  more  than  dear  they  have  been  to  me.  I  could  not 
tell  you  of  the  depths,  the  intensity  of  my  love.  I  thought 
while  you  were  speaking  of  the  stars  above  us,  and  know  that 
there  are  stars  in  the  heavens  bright  as  those  we  see  tonight 
that  are  obscured  by  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  sun  which  hide 
them  from  our  vision,  never  to  be  seen  except  during  an 
eclipse.  So  with  my  love.  It  burns  brightly  for  you  now, 


FROM   THE   WORLD  169 

and  some  day  trouble  and  sorrow  may  darken  your  life, 
friends  may  desert  you,  the  whole  world  fail  you,  then 
through  the  darkness  you  may  understand  what  my  love  is, 
what  it  means  for  you  and  for  me." 

"Heart  of  my  heart,  I  believe  you  and  trust  you  utterly. 
If  the  test  comes  sooner  or  later  you  will  not  fail  me,  you  will 
stay  with  me  though  all  the  world  oppose." 

"Safe  in  your  love,  the  world  is  nothing  to  me,"     I  replied. 

And  when  we  went  indoors,  a  cricket  upon  the  rug  near 
the  smoldering  fire  was  singing  his  evening  hymn,  some  tiny 
flames  gleaming  and  flickering  sent  a  rosy  light  over  the 
hearth  and  tinged  the  walls.  There  was  silence  in  the  room 
except  the  shrilling  noise  from  the  senseless  insect,  and  in  the 
moment  of  my  last  waking  thought,  something  seemed  to 
whisper  in  my  ear  these  words:  "Love  sacrifices  all  things  to 
bless  the  thing  it  loves." 


XIX 


"Who   cares    for   nothing,   a   king   is   he, 
Sit  down  good  fellow  and  drink  with  me.'' 

I  repeated  the  above  lines  to  Fred  and  he  replied: 
"The  sentiment  is  all  right,  but  excuse  me  from  complying 
with  your  request — if  it  means  pulque.      I  have  never  in- 


PIGSKINS    FILLED    WITH    PULQUE. 

dulged  in  swill,  and  think  from  the  one  taste  I  had  of  pulque 
it  is  a  twin  brother  to  bad  buttermilk  or  whey.  1  have  never 
been  in  favor  of  the  whey  habit.  I  can  only  solve  the  prob 
lem  of  the  inordinate  fondness  for  pulque  by  these  people, 
that  some  of  the  beasts  possessing  the  evil  spirits  which  ran 
down  into  the  sea  were  not  all  drowned  and  their  appetites 
for  the  swill  of  old  has  been  transmitted  through  several 
periods  of  re-incarnation." 

"Don't  be  sarcastic.     Take  some  tequila   and  cool  your 
heated  tongue,"  I  said  to  him. 

170 


FROM   THE   WORLD  171 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  having  a  lucid  interval  for  the  time  being 
at  least.  Ask  some  of  the  chili-pod  eaters  to  join  you.  They 
drink  tequila  and  seem  to  relish  it  as  I  would  a  glass  of  iced 
milk  if  I  could  get  it,"  he  replied  with  a  sigh.  Then  added: 
"I  am  rather  considerate  of  my  stomach  and  my  conscience, 
both  are  so  nearly  alike  that  if  one  suffers  the  other  feels 
the  effect — both  rebel  after  a  thing  is  done,  not  before. 
Hence,  I  try  to  use  judgment  and  save  each  one  all  I  can, 
and  my  slumbers  are  always  sweeter  for  the  ounce  of  pre 
vention." 

"It  is  a  good  idea,  Fred.  But  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to 
join  me  in  a  toast  to  your  fair  friend  whom  you  painted.  She 
looked  beautiful  enough  last  night  for  one  to  take  some 
chances,  so  here's 

'To  a  heavenly  face  in  sweet  repose, 

To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  blood  of  the  rose ! ' 

"Do  you  not  think  her  slumberous  eyes  that  have  the  splen 
dor  of  the  tropics  in  their  depths,  rather  thrilling?  " 
"They  certainly  are  beautiful,"  he  replied. 

"Her  large  eyes  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  south, 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  ripe  warm  mouth," 

I  said  teasingly. 

Possibly  you  may  think  that  Fred  is  getting  somewhat 
interested  from  the  foregoing,  Jack,  which  1  am  writing  along 
with  the  uneven  thread  of  my  discourse.  And  I  am  hoping 
that  he  as  well  as  myself  may  return  in  a  better  condition 
mentally  and  physically.  I  have  found  our  new  friends 
charming  and  Fred  has  seemed  quite  interested  in  the  beauti 
ful  girl  who  is  rather  inclined  to  make  him  think  of  her  eyes, 
if  I  gather  the  meaning  of  her  coquettish  glances. 

In  all  the  diversity  of  life  here  I  do  not  forget  you,  my 
patient  friend.  I  love  to  think  of  you,  and  seem  to  hear  you 
sigh  when  you  receive  one  of  my  rambling  messages.  But 
I  am  pleased  to  think  the  sigh  means  that  you  wish  you  were 
with  me.  And  I  will  do  my  best  to  let  you  see  without  other 
effort  than  reading  a  few  of  the  things  I  am  enjoying,  while 
you  are  busy  with  schemes  on  hand  to  cinch  the  other  fellow. 

We  have  been  on  a  short  excursion  out  of  the  old  city. 


1 72  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  was  tired  of  the  noisy  streets.  It  was  too  much  like  home 
and  I  wanted  to  rest  from  the  distorted  idols  in  the  museum, 
else  I  might  in  my  desperation  have  become  an  image-breaker. 
My  condition  calls  for  one  thing  only  and  I  spell  it  "idle," 
and  so  I  found  sweet  solace  in  my  sojourn. 

It  was  a  charming  trip  to  Cuernavaca,  about  seventy-five 
miles  from  the  City  of  Mexico.  The  road  winds  for  some 
fifty  miles  up  the  mountains  by  a  corkscrew  grade  until  an 
altitude  of  ten  thousand  feet  is  reached.  It  was  winter  in 
the  tropics,  but  the  fruit  trees  were  in  bloom  and  fruits  and 
flowers  were  for  sale  that  grew  on  the  hillsides.  The  scenery 
was  grand,  beggaring  description.  Unlike  the  Lady  of 
Shalott  I  needed  no  magic  mirror.  My  mirror  was  the  car- 
window  as  we  crept  slowly  along,  and  it  needed  no  witchery, 
for  there  was  magic  in  every  bit  of  landscape  and  in  every 
phase  of  life  in  this  old  New  World. 

One  of  the  charms  of  Mexico  is  the  absence  of  clothes  and 
conventionalities,  upon  the  heights  where  the  natives  live 
in  cornstalk  and  grass-thatched  mudhuts,  shivering  in  the 
cold  or  sweltering  in  the  heat.  Their  experiences  of  life, 
however  hard  or  degrading,  are  matched  by  an  indifference 
to  it  all,  brought  on  by  the  germ-disease  laziness,  that  is  as 
old  as  their  Aztec  calendar  stone.  Their  days  are  passed 
in  blissful  unconsciousness  of  their  condition,  knowing  ab 
solutely  nothing  except  the  life  of  their  fathers,  from  the 
Western  Noah,  who  built  the  Pyramids,  down  to  the  present 
life  on  the  bleak,  wind-swept  mountain- ranges  between 
Mexico  City  and  the  beautiful  Cuernavaca  plateau.  Pos 
sessing  a  matchless  vitality,  they  unconsciously  cling  to  their 
customs,  and  eat  their  tortillas  unleavened  by  ambition  or 
discontent.  Bless  their  tatters,  they  are  indeed  "glad  rags," 
for  they  show  through  rents  and  wind-tossed  shreds  the 
polished  mahogany  and  chocolate-colored  limbs  of  the  mucha- 
chos  that  would  drive  a  sculptor  wild. 

Imagination  is  not  racked  and  nourished  in  a  sort  of  hot 
house  atmosphere.  It  needs  no  incentive.  The  life  I  saw 
was  so  real,  so  human  that  after  all,  it  was  in  one  sense  un 
real.  They  seem  so  replete  with  unwearied  vitality,  fresh 
and  untrammeled  as  when  the  earth  was  young.  They  appear 
to  enjoy  their  drama  of  life  and  I  think  they  understand 


FROM   THE   WORLD  173 

the  art  of  living,  if  there  be  not  much  of  splendor  in  the 
setting,  for  there  are  no  contrasts  up  there  so  near  heaven, 
as  down  in  the  far-off  city  on  the  plain,  of  which  they  know 
nothing.  Life  is  about  the  same  for  one  and  all,  and  here, 
surely  ignorance  is  bliss,  and  so  they  live  their  brief  hour, 
making  the  best  of  it  in  their  dull,  stoical  way,  which,  after 
all,  is  the  very  best  wisdom  attained  by  mortals. 

We  slid  down  from  the  summit  over  a  grade  that  for  pic- 
turesqueness  and  beauty  I  have  scarcely  if  ever,  in  all  my 
wanderings,  seen  equaled.  Through  a  blue  mist  I  saw  won 
derful  table-lands  rimmed  in  by  mountains.  There  were 
rivers  and  emerald  lakes  under  a  pure  hyacinth  sky,  clear 
and  bright  except  in  the  distance  where  great  foamy  masses 
of  vapor  were  tossed  and  shattered  against  the  far  away 
peaks. 

There  were  wonderful  pictures  in  the  mirage-haunted  dis 
tances,  exalting  in  their  grandeur.  A  fellow-passenger  who 
had  seemed  oblivious  to  his  surroundings  until  we  had  left 
the  summit  and  started  for  the  down  grade,  came  out  upon 
the  platform  and  stood  beside  me. 

"Santa  Maria,  but  it  is  glorious !"  he  exclaimed.  He 
looked  at  me  and  pointed  to  the  city  of  Cuernavaca,  where 
it  drowsed,  half  smothered  in  tropical  vegetation. 

"That  is  my  home,  life  will  be  worth  living  now,"  he  said. 

He  had  been  away  from  his  loved  home,  and  now  that  he 
was  in  sight  of  it  once  more  he  seemed  transfigured.  His 
homesickness  fell  away  from  him,  all  the  pain  and  heartaches 
that  had  been  evident  in  his  expressive  eyes  were  gone,  and 
he  might  have  been  standing  on  some  new  Mount  of  Trans 
figuration,  so  marvelous  was  the  change  in  him.  His  hungry 
eyes  looked  down  on  the  plain  where  his  heart  was,  and 
stranger  that  I  was,  I  did  not  wonder  that  he  loved  his  home. 

From  the  weird  cacti  and  the  black  lava  beds,  we  went 
down  into  tropical  verdure.  There  were  great  trees  covered 
with  bright  blooming  orchids,  and  others  whereon  were  other 
gorgeous  blossoms.  I  saw  hibiscus  trees  that  were  more  than 
a  foot  in  diameter,  immense  poinsettias,  and  flowering 
bougainvilleas,  besides  many  beautiful  flowers  unknown  to 
me.  Still  lower  and  we  were  among  the  groves  of  bananas 
and  the  coffee  plantations,  and  here  I  had  my  first  real  taste 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


of  the  tropics.  There  were  white  walls,  red  tiled  roofs,  vine- 
wreathed  arches  and  crevices;  trees  with  golden  fruits,  chiri- 
moyas  ("the  fruit  of  the  angels"),  mangoes,  guavas  and 
bananas  grew  in  abundance.  I  saw  the  usual  throng  of  native 
Indians  carrying  water  from  the  fountains  in  their  pottery 
jars. 

As  I  went  through 
the  streets  I  observed 
the  projecting  balcon 
ies  from  which  flut 
tered  bright-colored 
curtains.  One  involun 
tarily  weaves  romances 
and  stories  of  soft 
music  in  the  swooning 
balmy  nights,  of  caba- 
llero  and  senorita,  of 
moonlight  and  love. 
Old  Castilian  heroes 
and  heroines  haunt  my 
dreams,  as  I  sleep  in  a 
quaint  room  in  the 
quaint  old  hotel  with 
its  arched  portals  and 
patios,  where  fragrant 
flowers  bloom  and  the  musical  splashing  of  falling  water 
from  the  vine-shrouded  fountain  lend  a  charm  to  my  half- 
waking,  half-dreaming  hours.  The  whole  plain  about  Cuer- 
navaca  is  full  of  interest,  and  none  the  less  so  because  it  is 
hidden  away  from  the  beaten  path  of  tourists,  the  major 
ity  of  whom  think  the  City  of  Mexico  comprises  about  all 
of  the  republic  worth  seeing.  Everywhere  are  Aztec  ruins, 
and  history  is  forced  upon  one  at  every  turn. 

Near  here,  a  mile  above  sea-level,  is  a  hill  or  pyramid  built 
by  human  hands,  nearly  four  hundred  feet  high  and  three 
miles  in  circumference.  This  was  the  Zochicalo,  or  House 
of  Flowers,  that  was  built  in  terraces  like  the  pyramids  of 
Sahara  in  Egypt.  Some  old  Pagan  rulers  built,  shaped  and 
smoothed  these  terraces.  Here,  too,  as  elsewhere,  are  images 


WATER-CARRIER,    CUERNAVACA. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  175 

of  birds,  beasts  and  reptiles,  carved  by  unknown  hands  with 
unknown  implements.  Here  imagination  cast  off  its  fetters 
and  reveled  in  the  vague  and  unknown,  in  perhaps  useless 
speculation  over  evidences  of  a  race  long  gone.  Here,  as  in 
so  many  parts  of  Southern  Mexico,  are  remains  of  a  past 
civilization  that  is  a  sealed  book  to  us.  We  know  that  they 
lived  and  built  their  temples  and  vast  pyramids,  whose  vast- 
ness  rivals  Egypt's  famed  wonders. 

I  thought  of  all  the  strange  things  in  this  new  Old  World, 
of  the  relics  and  ruins  of  a  race  blotted  from  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  accepted  what  I  saw,  for  I  do  not  care  for  theories 
and  a  searching  for  facts  to  suit  them.  These  ruins  are  silent, 
and  the  mystery  that  enshrouds  them  made  them  all  the  more 
fascinating,  possibly,  to  me.  Still,  one  does  not  care  for  his 
tory  for  a  continuous  diet.  It  is  good  to  live  in  the  present 
a  part  of  the  time  while  traveling  in  the  land  of  the  Monte- 
zumas,  and  it  was  especially  good  to  step  across  the  street 
from  the  old  hotel  to  a  modern  dining-room  kept  by  a  sup 
posed  American  (a  Mormon),  who  had  very  nearly  what  he 
advertised — "American  cooking."  Some  fastidious  travelers 
refused  to  go  because  it  was  said  he  had  more  than  one  Indian 
wife. 

"If  he  had  as  many  as  Solomon  and  hasn't  found  out  the 
futility  of  it,  that  is  the  place  to  go,"  I  said,  "for  being  the 
mixture  he  is,  he  will  make  them  work." 

And  here  I  was  wise,  for  the  cooking  was  about  the  very 
best  I  found  in  all  my  travels.  And  in  this  country  of  snap 
shot  marriages  it  was  small  concern  of  mine  whether  or  not 
there  were  marriage  certificates  pinned  to  the  doors  of  the 
apartments  of  the  various  girls  who  served  us  well  and  kindly 
at  our  meals. 

I  think  often  of  my  first  experience  in  a  large  restaurant 
after  my  arrival  in  the  sister  republic.  There  was  a  clapping 
of  hands,  such  as  one  hears  at  a  political  meeting  when  self- 
interested  people  applaud  the  speakers.  I  wondered  why  the 
guests  were  applauding  the  waiters,  and  wondered  also  if  I 
should  do  the  same.  I  did  not  think  my  waiter  had  done  any 
thing  of  extraordinary  nature  unless  it  was  that  he  forgot, 
and  only  brought  me  two  or  three  things  out  of  half  a  dozen 
ordered.  By  dint  of  close  observation  I  learned  that  when  a 


176  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

waiter  was  needed  or  when  he  had  forgotten  something,  as 
Mexican  waiters  always  do,  the  over-wearied  and  half-starved 
guest  clapped  his  hands  until  the  tomorrow-boy  came. 

Gray  matter  does  not  work  in  Mexico;  on  this  side  of  the 
Rio  Grande,  it  is  simply  a  question  of  heels;  brains  are  not 
racked  here.  I  enjoyed  watching  the  waiters  run  around  like 
ants  and  about  as  aimlessly.  It  was  a  study — their  waste  of 
time  and  useless  maneuvering.  Dinner  la  comida  was  a 
comedy  in  three  or  four  acts  and  a  lottery  also,  for  I  drew  a 
blank  often,  and  a  capital  prize  when  1  had  my  dinner  served 
on  the  same  day  it  was  ordered. 

The  automatic  system  I  once  saw  in  Copenhagen  would  be 
of  great  benefit  in  Mexico,  and  in  our  own  country  for  that 
matter,  and  would  be  especially  suitable  for  our  five-minute 
business  men,  yourself  included,  Jack,  who  cannot  spare  the 
time  for  a  course  dinner  or  a  take-your-time-restaurant  at  noon. 
For  the  convenience  and  comfort  of  travelers,  the  Copen 
hagen  automatic  restaurants  are  perfect.  One  simply  pulls 
a  handle,  drops  a  io-6re  coin,  which  is  two  and  a  half  cents 
in  our  money,  and  gets  a  plate  and  a  sandwich.  There  are 
walls  of  transparent  glass  with  nickel  pulls,  one  can  see  the 
various  eatables,  drinks  and  prices  marked  for  each.  The 
meal  is  easily  selected.  A  little  money  and  a  strong  pull  are 
all  that  one  needs.  A  table  stands  ready  for  the  food.  There 
are  no  delays,  the  food  is  good  and  hot,  and  there  are  no 
waiters  to  fee.  This  digression  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am 
not  traveling  simply  to  eat,  but  after  all  I  enjoy  a  good  dinner 
as  well  as  anyone  whose  stomach  has  not  as  yet  been  given 
over  to  hot  water  theories,  and  other  fads. 

I  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  old  town  with  its  palace  where 
Cortez  lived,  and  the  splendid  Borda  Gardens  that  cost  over 
a  million  dollars,  which  are  perfect  gems  with  their  labyrinths 
of  walks,  terraces,  slopes,  lakes,  statues  and  wealth  of  tropical 
vegetation  reminding  me  somewhat  of  the  Borghese  gardens 
in  Rome,  only  here  the  vines  and  trees  are  far  more  luxuriant 
and  tropical  than  Italy  ever  knew.  It  was  like  wandering  in 
fairyland,  and  in  the  vicinity  also,  among  the  coffee  groves 
with  the  branches  heavily  laden  with  the  vivid  red  berries, 
looking  so  bright  amid  the  polished  green  leaves. 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


177 


We  visited  the  famous  Barranca  or  gulch,  a  deep  cleft  filled 
with  immense  trees,  ferns  and  other  trees  on  the  brink  over 
which  vines  trail  and  hang  like  great  ropes  down  the  vertical 
walls.  A  beautiful  cataract  leaps  by  cascades  down  its  mossy 
path.  Here  Cortez  fought  one  of  his  battles.  A  passage 
was  formed  by  the  aid  of  trees  and  vines  meeting  over  the 
chasm.  The  Indians  were  far  more  prosperous  here  than 
any  we  have  so  far  seen.  They  raise  corn,  coffee  and  bananas, 
make  pottery  and  seem  to  have  sufficient  for  their  needs. 


FOUNTAIN    UNDER   THE    MANGO    TREES,    CUERNAVACA,    MEXICO. 

There  is  more  of  coffee  and  less  of  pulque,  less  begging,  for 
they  are  not  tourist-spoiled  yet,  but  are  dignified  and  pleasant 
to  deal  with. 

How  vividly  I  remember  one  evening  spent  in  the  palace 
gardens  in  the  dusk  under  the  tropical  skies.  Looking  sky 
ward,  strange  constellations  loomed  up,  burning  brightly  and 
intensely  in  the  southern  skies.  A  tender  strain  of  music  came 
to  me,  filling  the  odorous  air  about  me,  hovering  over  the 
deeply-worn  streets  and  garden,  a-tangle  with  mosses  and 
riotous  vines.  Was  it  an  echo  of  bygone  years — the  wail  of 
some  old  Aztec  crying  out  in  the  dim  twilight,  with  tremulous, 


178  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

sobbing  moans  filled  with  pathos  and  pain?  A  remembrance 
of  something  lost  seemed  to  be  in  the  notes  that  thrilled  and 
died  away  in  the  hushed  twilight.  The  sound  was  strangely 
real  and  human,  but  it  was  only  a  mocking-bird  singing  out 
its  heart-broken  notes  amid  the  orchid-laden  trees. 

Later  on  with  the  witchery  of  the  night  about  us  we  paused 
for  a  moment  before  the  old  gray  palace,  then  went  on  with 
the  bird  notes  still  throbbing  in  my  ears.  We  passed  a  house 
through  whose  heavily-barred  windows  came  the  sound  of 
music.  It  was  "La  Golondriana"  the  "Home,  Sweet  Home" 
of  the  Mexicans,  that  touches,  stirs,  and  melts  them,  whether 
heard  in  the  casa  grande,  the  adobe,  or  mud-hut  thatched 
with  palm  leaves,  or  thrummed  on  guitars  or  improvised 
harps,  out  in  the  twilight  air.  The  melody  wherever  heard 
touches  the  soul  of  these  music-loving  people. 

Glancing  in  as  we  passed  the  window  I  saw  a  girlish  figure 
clothed  in  white,  with  great  masses  of  dark  hair  rolled  back 
from  her  face,  with  one  single  flower,  a  bright  red  hibiscus, 
placed  low  down  among  the  coils  of  her  hair.  Looking  more 
closely,  1  saw  standing  beside  her  the  homesick  traveler  whose 
face  was  radiant  with  love  and  happiness.  Mixed  and  inter 
woven  with  the  singer's  voice  came  again  the  bird  notes, 
rippling  and  thrilling  with  tenderness  and  sweetness  from 
among  the  mango  trees.  So  I  last  heard  them,  so  they  will 
sing  for  aye,  amid  the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  restful,  peace 
ful  nights.  Here,  as  elsewhere  in  the  world,  love  holds  sway, 
and  "Home  Sweet  Home"  in  any  country  is  home  indeed  if 
only  love  be  there. 

Glancing  at  Fred  I  saw  he  was  very  pale,  and  a  pang  for 
him  smote  my  heart.  I  thought  he  had  given  his  love  "for  a 
beautiful  bright  and  delusive  lie,"  and  my  sympathy  goes 
out  to  him  far  more  than  I  could  tell  him.  That  last  evening 
I  dream  of  even  now.  I  hear  again  the  music,  the  splash  of 
fountains;  the  fragrance  from  the  hearts  of  flowers,  more 
gorgeous  than  California  has  ever  known  comes  with  the 
dreams,  and  I  feel  that  no  recollections  of  Mexico  can  ever  be 
as  sweet  to  me  as  were  the  few  blessed  days  and  entrancing 
nights  in  Cuernavaca.  FRANK. 


XX 

"And  fidelity,  however  wide  the  severance,  makes  in  God's  sight,  a 
marriage-tie  holier,  holier  than  any  man  can  forge,  and  one  which  no 
human  laws  can  sever." 

ALICE  WRITES 

I  must  try  to  think,  my  dear  journal,  try  to  tell  you  that  it 
is  another  person  who  must  continue  writing,  because  I  have 
no  one  else  to  talk  to  as  I  can  to  you.  The  tears  fall  and  you 
do  not  care  if  the  white  pages  are  blotted  and  stained  with 
tears.  So  has  my  life,  my  soul,  been  dimmed  with  tears  that 
fell,  as  unavailing  prayers  went  up  while  my  throat  choked 
with  the  thought  that  seared  my  soul, — that  I  have  laughed 
and  sung  through  all  the  bright  summer  in  the  very  exube 
rance  of  living  and  loving  and  now  I  feel  that  "Life  is  a  lie 
and  love  is  a  cheat";  and  I  sit  cowering  in  fear,  groping  and 
wondering  why  God  lets  me  suffer;  why,  I  seem  to  be  lost 
amid  a  whole  world  of  people  who  are  stronger  than  I,  who 
would  know  what  to  do. 

I  have  no  one  to  tell  me,  no  one  in  all  the  world  of  women, 
to  whom  I  can  go  for  one  comforting  word,  one  little  word  of 
love.  And  I  know  too  well  that  I  cannot  cheat  myself  with  the 
comforting  thought  that  love  can  be  forgotten.  Whoever 
said  "Loving  is  not  living,"  never  loved,  never  knew  the 
depths,  the  fever  that  burns,  or  the  cold  that  pierces  the  heart 
and  abides  there.  Yet  I  must  wait  a  little  while,  and  tell 
it  right  if  I  can. 

If  I  remember,  it  was  the  next  morning,  one  I  had  looked 
forward  to  with  so  much  joy,  for  we  two  were  to  have  one 
whole  blissful  day  wandering  over  the  hills.  How  my  heart 
throbbed  for  joy.  1  was  out  of  doors  in  the  early  morning, 
which  was  fair  enough  to  tempt  the  world  of  people  who  live 
in  doors.  We  were  waiting  for  breakfast  to  be  prepared 
when  a  thought  came  to  my  mind.  I  had  intended  asking  my 
sweetheart  before,  but  was  rather  shy,  now  I  felt  I  could  wait 
no  longer,  and  the  morning  seemed  as  if  my  wish  might  be 
made  possible. 

i79 


i8o  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Darling,  I  have  wanted  you  to  do  something  for  me  for 
quite  a  long  time,  but  you  have  been  so  very  busy  all  the 
summer,  and  now  we  might  do  it  very  soon,  even  today," 
and  I  looked  up  at  him  as  if  the  wish  was  already  granted. 

"What  is  it,  my  angel?  Surely  nothing  very  hard  for  me 
to  do  with  your  help." 

"Well,  you  know  that  I  am  eighteen  and  over,  do  you 
not?" 

"Certainly,  I  haven't  forgotten  your  birthday,  and  our 
tender  love  on  that  memorable  day  made  a  little  more  sacred 
than  before  because  of  renewed  assurances  of  our  undying 
love  for  each  other." 

"Well,  being  of  age,  I  want  you  to  take  me  to  see  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Browning.  Wait,"  I  said,  as  he  started  up  as  if  he  was 
going  to  leave,  "hear  me;  you  must  take  me.  It  is  only 
right  that  we  should  go  once." 

"Go  once.     But  why,  in  God's  name,  why?"  he  repeated. 

"Because  I  wish  it.  They  know  we  are  married.  I  wrote 
them  and  I  only  want  to  go  just  once.  It  is  right,  I  think. 
They  are  old,  and  I  would  like  them  to  see  us,  to  know  how 
happy  we  are,  and  I  want  to  say  something  to  Mrs.  Brown 
ing.  Then  I  really  will  not  ask  to  go  again,  if  you  do  not 
wish  it,"  I  hurried  on  without  glancing  up  until  then,  and  the 
look  on  his  face  struck  terror  to  my  heart.  "Oh,  what  is  it, 
what  have  I  said?"  I  cried,  for  he  looked  like  death. 

"You  wrote  to  them?"  he  said,  slowly  as  if  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  speak.  "When  did  you  write?" 

"Before  I  left  for  Alaska.  1  thought  it  right  to  do  so, 
and  I  told  them  I  was  married  to  a  good  man,  and  safe  within 
the  arms  of  my  husband;  that  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  go  with 
Jane  as  they  had  planned,  and  though  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
world,  I  had  married  you  and  was  very,  very  happy;  that  I 
desired  they  would  not  interfere,  but  that  I  hoped  to  come 
some  day  and  let  them  see  I  had  made  no  mistake,  and  be 
forgiven." 

"But  they  knew,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  how  kind  of  you ;  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  that 
you  had  written  them?"  I  cried,  but  he  interrupted  me  with 
a  gesture. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  181 

"Alice,  how  dared  you  write,"  he  said,  so  sternly  that  1 
trembled  so  I  could  not  stand.  I  sank  down  on  the  seat  shiv 
ering  with  dread  of  something,  I  knew  not  what. 

"I  wrote  because  I  thought  if  they  knew  I  was  married  they 
would  probably  not  care  so  much  where  I  was,  and  I  told  them 
I  was  safe."  I  was  choking  with  sobs  and  tears,  but  he  did 
not  take  me  in  his  arms  as  he  had  done  before. 

"And  what  name  did  you  sign  to  that  one  or  other  letters?" 
he  said  in  a  strange  tone. 

"I  have  only  written  the  one,  and  signed  my  own  name, 
Alice  Bertram,  the  first  and  last  time  I  have  had  the 
pleasure,"  and  again  I  choked. 

He  turned  and  walked  down  the  path,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
I  heard  him  groan.  What  had  I  done?  Oh!  what  was  the 
mystery?  Why  should  we  be  so  miserable  when  I  was  so 
proud  of  my  home  and  our  own  dear  love? 

After  a  moment  he  returned  and  seating  himself  beside 
me,  took  me  in  his  arms,  soothed  and  quieted  me,  then  said : 
"Alice,  I  want  you  to  be  a  brave  little  woman.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you ;  there  are  some  things  that  you  seemingly  do  not  under 
stand.  I  know  you  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  a 
mere  child  in  ignorance,  because  of  your  isolation.  I  have 
studied  over  the  matter  deeply  and  wondered  if  you  thought 
all  this  while  that  we  were  really  married." 

"Really  married!  Why,  it  could  not  be  anything  else, 
could  it?"  I  smiled  now,  and  settled  back  in  his  arms  again. 
Then  he  continued: 

"Of  course  I  am  yours,  and  you  belong  to  me  by  the  divine 
right  of  love;  for  I  love  you  so  deeply,  so  desperately  that  I 
have  defied  the  world,  the  laws,  and  all  the  rights  civiliza 
tion  imposes  upon  mortals.  But,  dear  one,  we  are  not  hus 
band  and  wife  legally.  You  certainly  know  that  we  could  not 
have  been  legally  married  on  that  first  night  in  San  Fran 


cisco." 


"Not  married?"  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  growing 
dark  and  strange.  "I  do  not  understand,  of  course  the  excite 
ment  and  the  wine  you  gave  me  dazed  me,  made  me  forget 
everything  almost  until  the  next  morning  when  I  awoke  in  a 
strange  room,  sick  and  dizzy,  then  Mrs.  Andrews  came  in 
and  called  me  'madam,'  and  said  my  husband  would  return 


1 82  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

soon.  Why  did  she  say  that,  and  why  did  you  tell  her  I  was 
your  wife  if  it  was  a  lie?"  Something  was  pulling  at  my 
heart,  and  my  head  seemed  bursting. 

uOh,  do  not  torment  me,  I  could  not  live  if  I  thought  it 
were  true,  the  shame,  the  horror  of  it; — a  lie,  living  a  lie  all 
these  months,  and  I  looked  upon  you,  trusted  you  as  I  do 
my  Creator.  Do  not  be  cruel,  I — I  cannot  endure  much 
more.  See  how  weak  1  am,  how  my  hands  tremble." 

"Alice,  my  darling,  won't  you  try  to  be  brave  for  my  sake, 
and  listen?  My  beloved,  my  own,  God  help  me,  I  thought 
you  knew,  but  were  sweet  and  kind  enough  to  carry  out  the 
pretty  farce  when  you  called  me  husband,  and  let  me  tell  you 
that  I  am,  before  God,  who  knows  our  hearts.  I  could  not 
do  other  than  I  did  at  the  time  and  avoid  scandal,  and  later 
I  felt  that  it  was  best  to  send  you  away;  that  by  so  doing,  I 
might  break  the  spell  for  both  of  us.  But  I  could  not  remain 
away — the  overwhelming  desire  for  your  presence  was  so 
great  I  was  powerless  to  resist.  It  is  worth  a  lifetime  of  sor 
row  and  despair,  this  past  summer,  but  I  cannot  and  will  not 
give  you  up.  Still,  I  cannot  be  more  to  you  than  I  am  now, 
for  another  woman  bears  my  name,  and  it  is  not  the  name  you 
know  me  by." 

I  groped  my  way  blindly  from  those  arms  that  had  been  so 
dear  that  heaven  itself  was  not  needed. 

"Merciful  God!"  1  moaned,  "I  know  now  what  it  means. 
The  truth  has  been  forced  upon  me."  I  threw  out  my  hands 
trying  to  reach  something  real  and  tangible,  and  then  the 
blackness  of  death  struck  me,  and  I  knew  no  more. 


It  was  not  until  I  was  convalescent  that  I  learned  that  I  had 
lain  for  weeks  raving  in  delirium,  and  it  was  still  longer 
before  I  recovered.  In  my  delirium  it  seemed  that  one  figure 
was  ever  present,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  my  mother.  At 
times  she  seemed  in  some  peculiar  way  to  be  enduring  the 
same  agony  I  felt.  I  in  some  way  realized  that  she,  too,  knew 
all  the  horror  and  desolation  that  racked  my  soul,  that  she 
felt  and  understood,  for  I  could  see  her  writhe  as  if  in  pain, 
and  hear  her  moan;  but  ever  as  I  strove  to  comfort  and  con 
sole  her,  some  invisible  power  pulled  me  back,  back  into  a 


FROM   THE   WORLD  183 

region  where  unnamable  shadowy  forms  taunted,  jeered  and 
beckoned  me  with  uncanny  hands  until  I  would  cry  and  cower 
with  dread. 

And  then  there  would  be  a  sudden  change  again,  and  a 
strange  peace  would  fill  my  soul,  for  I  would  see  my  mother 
bending  over  me  as  she  did  when  I  was  a  child.  I  could  feel 
her  soft  hand  soothing  in  its  touch  as  she  stroked  my  hair, 
and  spoke  softly  and  tenderly  as  of  old,  when  1  used  to  waken 
in  the  darkness  from  some  horrid  dream,  crying  aloud  for 
her,  my  only  comforter. 

After  an  eternity  of  agony  and  dread,  another  form  took 
her  place.  I  knew  in  a  vague,  uncertain  way  that  my  hus 
band's  hand  was  upon  my  brow.  I  heard,  as  if  in  dreams, 
his  dear  voice  thrilling  me  as  he  entreated  me  to  listen  to  him, 
to  love,  to  forgive;  but  when  I  awoke  to  consciousness,  no 
one  but  a  nurse  and  the  doctor  came  near  me,  and  in  the  long 
days  when  reason  was  trying  to  gain  ascendency  over  the 
vagaries  of  the  brain  I  could  only  gather  up  the  threads  one 
by  one. 


At  last  one  day  I  was  allowed  to  read  a  message.  How  my 
heart  throbbed  when  I  saw  the  well-known  writing ! 

"My  own!  My  whole  desire !  My  treasure  !  Listen  to  me, 
my  heart's  best  and  only  love :  While  you  have  been  ill,  and  I 
on  the  verge  of  madness,  I  remembered  the  words  Pilate  gave 
to  the  Pharisees,  'Go  guard  it  as  you  know,'  and  I  shall  guard 
it  as  I  know,  as  only  I  of  all  the  world  know,  and  can  guard 
you,  my  treasure-trove,  my  own;  for  I  shall  watch  over  you, 
shall  keep  you  safe  from  the  world.  In  my  heart  you  have  an 
abiding  place;  none  shall  ever  hurt  or  displace  you,  but  safe 
within  my  arms  you  shall  rest,  until  the  time  comes  when  as  of 
old,  an  angel  shall  come  and  break  the  seal  and  we  two  shall 
know  no  more  of  earth,  of  night,  of  sorrow,  but  a  heaven  of 
eternal  love  together. 

"I  am  so  lonely  without  you,  my  star  that  brightens  the 
darkness  of  my  night  of  sorrows.  My  every  breath  all  these 
weeks  when  you  were  ill  has  been  a  voiceless  prayer  for  you 
first,  and  for  strength  to  help  me  in  this  time  of  need.  I  was 
with  you  during  your  hours  of  unconsciousness,  and  I  felt 


1 84  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

humbled  to  the  dust.  I  know  in  my  inmost  heart  the  brute 
that  I  am,  and  yet  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  regret  it.  I  have  given  my  life  for  a  great  love;  it 
is  yours,  and  will  be  always.  I  have  known  the  heights  and 
the  depths,  too,  of  love  and  despair.  No,  not  despair,  for 
while  I  have  your  love, — and  surely  the  wand  of  pity  will 
strike  your  heart,  if  it  has  not  already,  and  you  will  pity 
rather  than  condemn.  He  who  loves  much  will  forgive  much, 
and  surely  you  will  forgive,  for  if  1  have  wronged  you  I  have 
loved  you.  I  have  loved  you,  heaven  knows  how  deeply  and 
fondly.  'The  sinless  are  those  who  never  saw  the  face  of  temp 
tation,'  and  in  my  deception  wherein  lies  my  sin  against  you, 
remember  it  was  because  of  my  love  that  was  stronger  than 
I,  who  was  powerless  to  resist.  Oh,  child  of  my  heart !  you 
wound  yourself  about  the  very  fibres  of  my  being,  there  you 
will  abide  until  I  have  reached  that  vast  sea  of  God's  eternal 
rest. 

"I  have  been  in  the  depths ;  I  know  what  Gethsemane  means. 
I  have  struggled  beneath  my  olives,  and  know  what  the,  hem 
lock  in  my  life  means.  In  the  greatness  of  your  love  ponder 
over  these  words,  but  do  not  cast  me  from  you.  I  cannot, 
will  not,  live  shut  out  from  the  blessing  of  your  presence.  I 
shall  send  you  a  message  each  day  until  I  am  allowed  to  see 
you.  May  it  be  soon,  dear.  Let  me  hear  through  the  phy 
sician  when  1  may  come." 


"Only  the  tempted  know  what  temptation  is,"  and  though 
I  had  thought  I  would  never  see  him  again,  though  my  whole 
nature  cried  out  against  the  deception  practiced,  yet  my  love 
was  stronger  than  I,  and  again  the  words  came  to  me  now 
with  a  new  and  subtle  meaning,  "Love  sacrifices  all  for  the 
thing  it  loves." 

How  could  I  forget,  or  live  without  him,  and  yet,  another 
woman  perhaps  loved  him,  too.  Yet  he  loves  me  and  will  not 
give  me  up;  I  think  I  would  not  care  so  much  if  he  did  not 
love  me.  I  think  I  should  hate  him  if  I  thought  he  loved 
another.  But  loving  me  why  should  I  care  for  anything  else 
in  the  world.  1  only  yearn,  ah,  I  knew  it,  deep  down  in  my 
soul,  for  sweet  forgetfulness  in  his  arms.  I  wanted  no  remem- 


FROM  THE   WORLD  185 

brances  of  the  dead  days  and  drear  nights  that  had  sapped  my 
strength,  almost  my  life,  during  these  weeks  of  illness.  I 
only  wanted  them  folded  up  and  put  away  like  a  book  once 
read  and  forgotten. 

I  only  wanted  one  word  that  was  written  in  glittering  let 
ters  upon  my  heart  to  remain,  the  word — "LOVE !"  For  it 
was  love  I  knew  too  well  that  bound  our  hearts  in  indissoluble 
union.  Then  I  would  reason  until  my  brain  reeled,  trying 
to  plan  or  think  of  the  future  without  my  love  was  as  yet 
impossible  in  my  dazed  and  weak  condition.  Suffering  had 
not  made  me  wiser  or  stronger.  I  could  only  sit  and  drift 
back  to  the  days  before  my  illness  and  try  to  cheat  myself  that 
it  was  only  one  of  the  vagaries  of  my  brain,  that  it  was  only 
another  dreadful  dream. 

When  I  was  able  to  sit  up,  another  letter  was  given  me. 
I  said  to  myself,  I  will  not  read  it,  yet  knowing  all  the  while 
I  could  not  resist  the  pleadings  of  love.  I  hungered  with  all 
the  intensity  of  a  starved  being  for  food  to  sustain  life.  1  was 
not  strong  enough  to  refuse  and  I  knew  I  was  holding  out  my 
hands  as  I  used  to  do  to  my  mother;  that  I  must  feel  his  arms 
about  me  once  more  before  death  claimed  me. 

"My  little  darling,"  the  letter  began,  for  I  could  not  long 
resist  the  message,  his  eyes  seemed  to  look  at  me  and  entreat 
me  to  read  his  thoughts,  "now  that  I  learn  my  poor  tender 
love  is  improving  a  little,  may  I  not  plead  for  an  hour  or  even 
a  few  moments  that  my  eyes  may  see  you  once  more,  for  my 
whole  heart  goes  out  to  you,  and  I  would  give  my  life,  yes, 
over  again  could  I  have  spared  you  the  suffering  you  have 
undergone.  I  should  never  have  remained  away  a  moment, 
no  matter  what  the  consequences,  but  I  was  assured  that  the 
only  hope  for  you  was  absolute  quiet  with  nothing  to  remind 
you  of  the  cause  of  your  illness.  May  I  not  try  to  soften  your 
heart?"  (Ah,  he  did  not  know  how  soft  and  weak  a  heart 
I  had.)  "I  want  to  try  to  excuse  myself  to  make  you  more 
lenient  if  possible  before  you  say  the  word  'come,'  for  you  will 
and  soon,  my  darling,  my  only  hope. 

"You  came  into  my  life  at  a  moment  when  I  was  least 
capable  of  resisting  the  temptation  of  amusing  myself  with 
your  pretty,  girlish  ways  that  were  new  to  me.  Your  utter 
ignorance  of  the  world  and  your  beauty  fascinated  me,  for 


1 86  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

you  were  unlike  anyone  I  had  ever  known,  and  again  your 
very  loneliness  appealed  to  all  that  was  best  in  me.  I  felt  that 
I  must  try  to  divert  your  mind.  I  wanted  you  to  feel  there 
was  some  one  interested  in  you,  who  cared  for  you,  and  I 
thought,  God  help  me,  that  I  could  give  you  some  new  ideas, 
some  hope  of  a  change  with  kind  friends  to  cheer  you,  for  even 
from  the  first  meeting  I  seemed  to  read  your  heart.  I  could 
see  the  yearning  for  love  and  companionship  in  your  dear 
eyes. 

"The  idea  of  your  going  away  as  you  threatened,  and  I 
believed  you  ignorant  and  wilful  enough,  was  not  to  be  | 
thought  of  for  a  moment.  You  knew  nothing  of  the  world 
and  its  cruelty,  for  you  were  only  a  child  who  had  never 
come  in  contact  with  the  world  at  large  and  knew  less  than 
many  a  girl  of  ten  years  allowed  the  freedom  of  the  streets 
and  public  schools.  Realizing  fully  your  peril,  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  try  to  save  you  from  folly  and  regret. 

"Then  we  were  thrown  together,  and  in  trying  to  formu 
late  a  plan  whereby  you  might  be  reconciled  to  remain  at 
home,  I  saw  you  every  day,  talked  with  you,  learned  more  and 
more  how  innocent  of  the  ways  and  wiles  of  men  you  were. 
First  you  interested  and  amused  me,  and  each  day  I  found 
I  was  eager  to  meet  you.  I  loved  to  see  your  eyes  light  up 
with  pleasure  when  I  came,  your  telltale  blushes  told  me  more 
than  you  were  aware  of.  Your  naive  way  of  expressing  your 
thoughts,  your  perfect  frankness  in  manner  and  speech,  and 
your  too  evident  happiness  in  my  society  flattered  me — man 
of  the  world  as  I  am — for  men  are  far  more  susceptible  to 
flattery  than  most  people  suppose,  and  I  am  no  exception. 

"Unconsciously  you  drew  me  to  you.  You  were  lonely  and 
craved  companionship,  and  I  could  not  withstand  your  tears. 
You  wound  yourself  about  my  heart  before  I  knew  or  realized 
it,  and  when  I  found  that  I  was  powerless  to  resist  the  mad 
infatuation  that  possessed  me,  and  that  I  was  desperately  and 
hopelessly  in  love  with  you,  I  flung  reason  to  the  winds  and 
abandoned  myself  to  the  madness  of  the  hour.  But  I  did 
not  dream  of  anything  serious  so  far  as  you  were  concerned, 
and  not  for  one  moment  did  I  harbor  an  evil  thought  or  think 
of  any  undesirable  consequences,  until  caught  in  the  storm 
center  of  passion,  I  allowed  myself  and  you  to  be  whirled  on 


FROM   THE   WORLD  187 

in  its  narrowing  circles  of  sweetness  and  power  until  reason, 
sense  and  judgment  fled,  and  the  circle  narrowed  until  the 
world  and  its  obligations  were  forgotten. 

"There  were  only  we  two,  the  elemental  male  and  female, 
adrift  on  a  sea  of  passion,  powerless  yet  willing  voyagers, 
forgetting  all  save  each  other,  and  not  caring  whither  we  were 
carried.  Strange  how  soon  reason  and  regret,  unwelcome 
visitors,  return  when  the  storm  of  passion  is  passed.  Why 
does  not  conscience  assert  herself  before  a  deed  is  committed? 
It  is  like  a  sluggish  snake,  peaceful  and  quiet  until  something 
happens  to  arouse  it,  then  there  is  danger.  So  with  conscience 
when  it  is  too  late ;  it  begins  to  uncoil  and  strikes  with  relent 
less  fury,  and  oh,  the  pangs  of  its  hurt.  A  little  activity  on  its 
part  before  the  deed  is  accomplished  might  save  a  world  of 
agony  and  pain,  but,  alas,  it  is  always  a  little  too  late,  and  sel 
dom  makes  itself  known  until  the  thing  for  which  it  accuses 
one,  is  accomplished,  and  then  what  is  the  good? 

"But  conscience  can  never  control  love,  for  there  is  nothing 
stronger  in  the  world  than  love,  and  nothing  weaker,  it  seems; 
for  in  my  love  for  you  I  am  weak  and  helpless,  an  arrant 
coward,  and  though  I  fought  and  struggled  at  first,  I  am  now 
the  most  willing  of  captives.  I  shall  serve  you  whether  you 
will  or  not  all  my  life,  and  all  of  it  shall  be  devoted  to  you 
and  shall  be  spent  in  the  endeavor  to  make  up  for  my  decep 
tion,  for,  my  darling,  I  was  selfish  and  felt  that  you  must  be 
mine  at  any  cost. 

"There  was  nothing  else  for  you  or  for  me  in  the  world,  I 
firmly  believed.  For  1  knew  you  loved  me  with  that  first 
kiss,  but  even  then  I  had  not  forgotten  my  duty  to  the  woman 
who  bore  my  name,  and  I  had  no  thought  of  casting  a  shadow 
on  your  young  life.  I  did  not  realize  or  think  of  the  subtle 
influence  of  your  presence  or  of  the  danger  point  where  temp 
tation  and  desire  sets  in  until  it  was  too  late.  The  drifting 
with  the  tide  is  so  easy  when  one's  wishes  go  in  the  same  direc 
tion.  So  I  found  it,  and  so  was  caught  in  the  current  all  unex 
pectedly  that  day  I  came  across  you,  and  you  in  your  fear  of 
your  traveling  Nemesis  begged  me  to  save  you  from  her. 

"O  child,  child,  with  the  passionate  soul  of  a  woman, 
looking  at  me  with  your  eager,  pleading  eyes,  I  could  not 
tear  myself  away  from  their  magnetic  influence.  The  rapture 


1 88  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

of  having  you  with  me,  of  saving  you  perhaps  from  a  life  of 
which  you  knew  nothing,  where  amid  the  vapors  of  sin  and 
shame  you  would  suffer  and  be  smothered  in  an  atmosphere 
laden  with  the  sighs  and  moans  of  lost  souls,  predominated. 
A  protecting  tenderness  was  my  first  emotion  for  you,  and 
with  the  love  which  grew  stronger  and  which  overpowered 
me  I  felt  I  must  save  you  from  yourself, — you,  in  all  your 
fresh  young  beauty  adrift  in  the  cold,  cruel  world !  I  did  not 
forget  my  duty  to  my  wife,  but,  reason  as  I  would,  it  did  not 
seem  that  I  was  called  upon  to  sacrifice  my  life  and  yours,  to 
put  aside  our  dear  love  with  all  its  warmth  and  delight  for  an 
abstract  or  senseless  idea  of  duty.  I  might  have  put  you  and 
the  heaven  of  my  life  from  me,  but  what  would  I  have  left 
for  her  whom  I  once  thought  I  loved.  Without  you  all  the 
dreams,  the  hopes  and  desires  that  make  the  poetry  of  life 
and  living  here  on  earth  desirable  would  be  shut  away  from 
my  soul.  It  would  not  be  in  accord  with  nature's  plans,  for 
it  would  seem  useless  and  unnatural,  when  deep  in  my  soul  I 
knew  there  could  never  be  anything  left  for  Ruth,  my  wife, 
save  a  cold  and  chilling  sense  of  duty;  when  with  you  every 
want  of  my  nature  was  satisfied  and  has  been  from  the  first, 
when  I  found  I  was  in  the  depths  of  an  overpowering  and 
absorbing  love  from  which  I  know  now  there  can  be  no 
escape. 

"Love,  such  as  is  in  our  hearts,  means  but  one  thing,  and 
that  is  union — marriage — just  as  incompatibility  means  sep 
aration  or  divorce,  and  scarcely  was  I  married,  according  to 
the  law,  before  I  knew  too  well  that  we  were  as  widely 
separated  so  far  as  concerned  our  bodies  and  souls  which  did 
not  respond  to  the  alchemy  of  love  wherein  lies  real  marriage. 
Dear  one,  shall  we  refuse  the  cup  of  nectar  that  will  be  ours, 
always  full  and  running  over,  that  fate  holds  in  readiness  for 
us,  because  of  the  man-made  laws  of  the  world  wherein  we 
happen  to  live?  In  other  localities  our  love,  our  union  would 
not  only  be  justified  but  deemed  a  religious  duty.  There  are 
other  lands,  other  cities  of  which  you  have  read,  and  doubtless 
dreamed,  where  we  can  go  and  create  a  home  for  ourselves, 
where  we  can  live  in  peace  all  our  lives. 

"1  have  not  told  you,  but  I  am  wealthy,  and  we  can  go 
wherever  we  wish,  and  no  one  can  hinder  or  control  our 


FROM   THE   WORLD  189 

actions.  We  will  plan  everything  to  your  liking  when  you 
are  well  enough.  All  I  ask  now,  is  that  you  will  let  me  come 
to  you,  my  joy,  my  comfort.  Let  me  know  that  you  still  love 
me.  You  are  sweet  and  charitable,  and  I  will  come  to  you  a 
supplicant,  poorer  than  charity  itself. 

"Hoping,  praying,  that  out  of  the  greatness  of  the  love  you 
had  for  me,  you  will  not  deny  me  a  pittance  of  that,  I  hope, 
which  must  still  lie  within  the  depths  of  your  soul.  My  angel, 
be  pitiful,  be  merciful,  give  me  the  heaven  of  your  love,  the 
only  heaven  I  crave." 


XXI 

"And  ye  are  fleeting,  all  vainly  I  strive 

Beauties  like  thine  to  portray ; 
Forth    from   my   pencil   the   bright   picture   starts 

And — ye  have  faded  away." 

I  am  leaving  the  old  city  again  for  a  visit  southward,  friend 
Jack,  and  am  going  to  prowl  among  pyramids  and  old  ruins 
alone.  Fred  does  not  seem  interested  in  these  things,  but  will 
go  East  to  Jalapa  and  Vera  Cruz  with  me  when  I  return.  He 
has  met  some  charming  people.  The  fair  senorita  of  whom 
I  wrote,  seems  to  claim  a  good  portion  of  his  time  and  there 
are  several  families,  American  and  English  also,  we  have  met 
who  are  hospitable  and  altogether  charming. 

We  have  had  some  delightful  drives  on  the  paseo  and  on 
to  Chapultepec,  the  fashionable  drive,  and  at  the  proper  hour, 
from  four  to  seven  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  We  have  seen 
something  of  the  private  life  of  the  exclusive  wealthy  people 
here,  and  it  has  been  pleasant,  but  you  know,  my  dear  fellow, 
I  am  not  searching  for  life  of  that  kind,  in  fact,  I  am  rather 
anxious  to  avoid  it.  So  now  I  shall  send  you  an  account  of 
my  last  excursion. 

Early  one  morning  I  found  my  way  to  the  ticket  office — 
despachio  de  boletas — at  San  Lazare  station,  and  in  a  smoke- 
filled  eating  room  made  an  attempt  at  breakfast.  The  coffee 
was  thick  and  black,  the  bread  hard  and  sour.  The  eggs  had 
been  laid  by  a  triste  hen,  or  perhaps  she  had  been  raised  near 
the  Viga  Canal.  But  I  am  not  living  to  eat  in  Mexico,  and 
to  do  the  country  justice,  will  say  that  eggs  as  a  rule  are  about 
the  best  staple  found  down  below  the  Tropic  of  Cancer,  and 
one  can  generally  rely  upon  them. 

I  soon  forgot  about  the  breakfast  when  we  left  the  City  of 
Mexico  and  started  for  Puebla,  as  our  train  moved  along  the 
ancient  causeway  that  once  was  a  road  between  the  capital 
of  the  Montezumas  and  the  great  city  of  the  Tuxucans.  On 
either  side  of  the  track  are  trees  which  shade  the  avenue,  their 
boughs  meeting  overhead.  This  beautiful  road  skirts  the 


190 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


191 


Viga  for  some  miles,  from  which  extends  the  recently  finished 
and  successful  drainage  canal  that  runs  some  thirty  miles 
through  the  valley,  through  a  tunnel  seven  miles  long,  drain 
ing  the  valley  of  Mexico  into  the  ravine  of  Teginzgniac. 

Lake  Tezcuco,  a  blue  shimmering  sheet  of  water,  lies  on 
the  left,  and  in  the  marshes  of  Chalco  are  thousands  of  wild 
ducks  which  seem  immune  from  the  hunter.  Farther  on  we 
came  to  fertile  plains.  Picturesque  churches,  villages  and 
haciendas  dot  the  landscape.  There  are  aqueducts  and  Aztec 


MAGUEY     PLANT    AND     SAP-GATHERER. 


ruins,  and  in  the  distance  are  the  Pyramids  of  the  Sun  and  the 
Moon,  older  than  Cheops,  perhaps. 

We  entered  the  great  pulque  regions  at  Irola.  The  country 
for  the  most  part  is  used  principally  for  the  cultivation  of  the 
maguey  plant,  from  which  is  made  the  pulque,  the  curse  of  the 
country,  and  other  intoxicating  drinks.  The  maguey,  or,  as 
we  know  it,  the  century  plant,  starts  to  bloom  in  about  four 
or  five  years  after  planting,  in  some  parts  of  Mexico.  The 
stem  is  cut  out  before  it  grows  very  high,  and  in  the  reservoir 
thus  formed  at  the  base  of  the  great  leaves  the  sap  is  col 
lected.  A  good  plant  will  often  yield  one  hundred  and  fifty 
gallons  before  it  dies.  Even  then  the  plant  does  duty,  for 


1 92  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ropes  are  made  from  the  fibre  of  the  leaves,  huts  are  thatched 
with  them,  the  heart  or  root  is  roasted  and  eaten.  It  burns 
readily,  green  or  dry.  Mescal  and  the  fiery  tequila  are  made 
by  distillation, — agua  miel  (honey-water)  they  call  the  sap 
when  first  drawn  from  the  plant  by  the  sap-gatherers. 

They  take  long  gourds,  pierce  each  end,  and  putting  one 
end  in  the  reservoir  they  suck  the  air  from  the  gourd,  which 
then  fills  with  the  juice.  This  is  emptied  into  pig-skins  or 
other  receptacles  and  in  twenty-four  hours  ferments.  It  is 
then  the  dearly  beloved  pulque,  which  will  not  keep,  and  is 
the  one  thing  that  is  an  exempt  from  the  rule  of  delay.  There 
are  no  mananas  for  pulque.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  pulque, 
is  about  all  the  average  Indian  asks.  And  when  I  realize  that 
one  hundred  thousand  pints  of  the  soured  juice  is  consumed 
daily  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  it  must  be  a  question  of  ask  and 
you  shall  receive.  One  wonders  how  changed  conditions 
might  be  if  the  vast  acreage,  the  miles  and  miles  of  maguey 
fields  were  used  for  growing  cotton,  corn  and  beans;  but  in 
this  country  pulque  is  a  necessity,  and  the  necessities  of  life 
they  must  have,  the  luxuries  they  can  do  without. 

I  did  not  need  a  dream,  like  Fra  Julian  Garces,  to  know 
that  the  location  of  Puebla  was  beautiful,  and  I  looked  upon 
it  not  with  dreaming  or  rested  vision,  but  tired,  worn  with 
travel  in  the  uncomfortable  cars,  stifled  with  tobacco  smoke 
that  filled  the  car,  for  everybody  smoked.  There  are  only 
two  places  in  Mexico,  it  is  said,  where  smoking  is  not  allowed 
— the  churches  and  Pullman  cars.  I  know  not  if  there  are 
any  perambulating  churches  for  the  convenience  of  the  trav 
eler,  but  do  know  that  there  are  but  few  Pullman  cars  off  the 
main  lines,  so  traveling  is  simply  a  matter  of  endurance.  I 
was  hungry  and  weary,  but  appreciative,  when  I  saw  the 
beautiful  plain  between  the  slopes  of  the  great  volcanos,  with 
its  wealth  of  trees,  green  fields  and  sparkling  waters,  dom 
inated  and  guarded  by  Popocatepetl  and  Ixtaccihuatl,  while 
in  the  near  distance  Orizaba  nodded  approval  with  his  hoary 
head.  The  scene  would  be  fair  enough  were  there  no  city,  but 
is  enhanced  by  the  domes  and  towers  of  the  churches,  stand 
ing  in  groups  and  in  pairs  and  alone,  towering  in  gay  colors — 
yellow,  red,  blue  and  brown — a  shadowy  resemblance  of 
Moscow,  with  the  star  and  crescent  lacking. 


FROM  THE   WORLD  193 

It  was  not  Puebla,  particularly,  that  I  cared  for.  The 
Pyramids  of  Cholula,  eight  miles  distant,  were  of  far  more 
interest  to  me.  Their  origin  is  unknown.  When  the  Aztecs 
came  in  the  eleventh  century,  the  great  pyramid  was  here,  and 
a  legend  that  had  come  down  to  the  dwellers  of  the  region 
was  told  them  of  its  builders — that  they  were  giants,  who  had 
descended  from  a  Western  Noah,  the  whereabouts  of  whose 
ark  was  unknown.  The  legend  runs,  that  having  displeased 
their  gods,  they  left  their  pyramids  unfinished,  which  is  of 


PYRAMID    OF    CHOLULA. 


small  concern  to  me.  But  the  great  pyramid  and  smaller  ones 
are  here  now,  and  covered,  except  in  some  places,  with  soil, 
the  accumulation  of  the  dust  of  centuries.  Immense  trees 
grow  thereon,  and  send  down  roots  among  the  masonry,  dis 
integrating  the  slabs  of  sun-baked  brick  and  mortar. 

The  great  temple  of  Quetzalcohuatl,  the  mystic  "God  of 
the  Air,"  is  gone.  There  is  no  trace  of  the  magnificent  ebon 
image,  jewel-bedecked,  and  resplendent  with  gold  and 
emblematic  shields,  the  symbol  of  his  power  over  the  winds. 

Cholula  was  to  the  ancients  what  Jerusalem  is  and  was  to 
the  pilgrims — the  Mecca  for  the  tribes — even  as  the  Moham 
medans  of  today  make  their  yearly  pilgrimages.  They  came 


i94  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ages  ago  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  land,  hundreds  of 
miles,  to  bow  down  and  worship  his  ebon  highness. 

I  went  up  the  roughly  paved  road  of  the  large  pyramid, 
which  is  only  one  hundred  and  seventy  feet  high,  yet  its  base 
lines  are  twice  as  long  as  those  of  Cheops,  in  Egypt,  and  it 
covers  twenty  acres  of  the  plain.  The  roadway  leads  by  easy 
gradations  to  the  summit.  Beautiful  trees  and  a  tangle  of 
undergrowth  covers  the  whole  surface,  which  looks  more  like 
a  mound  than  a  pyramid.  I  entered  an  arched  entrance  and 
saw  the  church,  Nuestra  Senora  de  los  Remedios,  built  where 
the  pagan  temple  once  stood.  I  looked  over  the  beautiful  val 
ley  and  saw  the  river  Atoyac  and  the  Puente  de  Dios  (Bridge 
of  God),  the  fair  city  of  Puebla  in  the  distance,  and  the  his 
torical  hill  of  the  Guadalupe,  where  the  French  were  repulsed 
in  1862,  and  also  in  the  later  battle  in  1867,  where,  by  the 
capture  of  the  French  army,  Maximilian's  doom  was  sealed. 

What  memories  cluster  about  this  region.  I  thought  of 
the  pomp  and  ceremony  of  the  rites  of  worship  of  the  old 
pagans  upon  this  summit;  of  their  sanguinary  worship  and 
strange  customs.  They  tore  the  hearts  from  living,  palpitat 
ing  bodies,  which  they  offered  in  sacrifice.  Cortez  the  Con 
queror,  massacred  the  Cholulans,  and  afterwards  to  show 
what  manner  of  men  he  and  his  followers  were,  cut  off  the 
hands  of  captives.  Of  the  methods  of  pagan  and  Christian  I 
have  nothing  to  say.  I  only  know  that  now  the  dust  is  silent 
beneath  my  feet  that  once  stirred  with  life;  that  the  race  long 
passed  away  once  built  and  fashioned  this  mound.  A  dis 
ciplined  and  populous  people  heaped,  with  long  toil,  this  great 
pile  of  earth  and  stones  for  the  abode  of  their  god,  while  in 
Athens  the  Greek  "was  hewing  the  Pentelican  to  forms  of 
symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock  the  glittering  Parthenon." 

The  sound  of  battle  died  long  ages  ago.  The  shield  of  tor 
toise  shell,  gold-mounted,  is  gone,  so  are  the  flint-pointed 
clubs  and  the  slings.  The  sound  of  the  war  drums  and  the 
blast  of  sea-shells  and  royal  horn  that  used  to  echo  from  these 
pagan  teocallis  are  heard  no  more,  as  are  gone  the  dread 
echoes  of  later  wars. 

I  saw  below  me  the  Cholula  of  today,  the  city  which 
showed  at  the  invasion  greater  wealth  and  higher  attainments 
in  architectural  skill  than  any  other  place  that  Cortez  and  his 


FROM   THE   WORLD  195 

army  had  seen.  It  now  has  a  population  of  five  thousand 
poverty-stricken  people,  dirty  and  filthy,  yet  rich  in  the  matter 
of  churches,  for  I  counted  twenty-eight  in  the  village  that 
lies  around  the  base  of  the  pyramid.  From  the  crumbling 
sides  of  a  smaller  pyramid  we  dug  strange  bits  of  carving  and 
odd  pieces  of  stone  figures,  animals  and  reptiles,  of  crude 
pottery  and  some  arrow-heads  of  obsidian. 

Puebla  !  Popocatepetl !  Ixtaccihuatl !  with  the  golden 
glow  behind  them;  Malintzi  in  the  foreground,  while  far 
through  the  immensities  of  air  eastward  a  bent  and  crooked 


STREET  SCENE  IN    CHOLULA. 


moon  cast  a  faint  light  on  the  eternal  snows  of  Orizaba. 
Through  the  haze  I  see  three  distinct  shades,  emerald,  purple, 
and  white,  emblematic  of  the  three  ages  of  man;  the  green 
meaning  hope  and  youth ;  purple,  the  richness  of  manhood, 
and  white,  cold  and  dreary,  age  and  the  end.  Well,  I  am  not 
in  too  great  a  hurry  to  reach  the  last  stage;  in  fact,  1  have 
scarcely  yet  begun  to  enjoy  the  purple  and  gold  of  manhood, 
and  I  hope  to  wrap  the  royal  colors  about  me  and  retain  them 
for  many  years  to  come. 

And  so  I  mused,  looking  from  the  foot  of  the  great  pyra 
mid,  basking  in  an  atmosphere  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of 


196  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

semi-tropical  plants  and  flowers,  while  the  light  faded  and  the 
ridges  gleamed  ghost-like  through  the  deepening  shades,  and 
far  above  in  the  luminous  haze  of  pink-tinged  masses  of  vapor 
huddled  against  a  stationary  wedge  was  old  Popocatepetl, 
shining  white  and  stern  in  silent  majesty,  with  the  lesser  peaks, 
guarding  Cholula  and  her  pyramids.  Looking  on  these  same 
pyramids,  I  wondered  gravely  upon  the  strangeness  of  the 
various  forms  of  worship  that  we  know  have  existed  in  bygone 
ages.  The  Mexicans  worshipped  Quetzalcohuatl,  born  of  a 
virgin  ages  before  America  was  thought  of.  They  had  their 
legends  of  the  flood  of  Noah  and  the  Ark,  as  is  evidenced  in 
the  ruins  at  Cuernavaca;  their  belief  in  a  Savior  antedates 
ours,  as  was  the  belief  of  the  Egyptians  in  Horus,  their 
Savior,  born  six  thousand  years  ago.  Buddha,  born  of  a 
virgin,  came  to  redeem  the  world  five  centuries  before  the 
wise  men  followed  the  star  and  found  a  babe  at  Bethlehem. 
The  Hindoos  worshipped  their  virgin-born  redeemer, 
Krishna.  His  miracles  were  told  and  he  was  called  the  Life, 
the  Good  Shepherd,  etc.,  the  same  legends,  the  same  belief 
pointing  to  a  common  origin — to  a  universal  foundation — the 
worship  of  some  supreme  being  or  creative  power,  as  is  shown 
by  their  worship  elsewhere,  and  especially  here  in  Mexico  in 
the  worship  of  the  God  of  Air,  God  of  Water,  and  God  of 
Fire.  In  all  their  grotesque  idols,  and  their  lust  for  blood, 
there  was  an  evidence  of  doing  something  to  appease  and 
propitiate  their  gods.  So,  my  dear  friend  Jack,  it  seems  that 
morality  and  religion  are  purely  relative  terms  after  all  is 
summed  up.  That  which  is  highly  improper  at  one  time,  may 
be  both  proper  and  religious  at  another.  The  virtue  of  yes 
terday  is  the  sin  of  today,  as  is  patent  to  us,  for  sex-worship 
or  phallicism,  the  proper  and  religious  spirit  in  times  gone 
by,  would  be  called  a  sin  and  would  horrify,  if  one  discussed 
the  rites  in  a  civilized  community  today.  I  will  leave  these 
matters  for  abler  heads,  and  will  not  bore  you  in  your  pro 
saic  office  with  what  will  probably  seem  absurd  ideas  to  you. 
But  if  you  were  here  I  think  the  strange  mysticism  of  the  place 
would  leave  its  impressions  upon  your  sordid  soul,  for  with 
the  rush  and  roar  of  a  very  material  world  about  you,  I  know 
that  within  the  inner  man  there  is  a  spirit  which  would  respond 


FROM   THE   WORLD  197 

to  the  unknown  history  and  mystery  of  a  people  who  were 
here  before  Calvary  echoed  the  words,  "It  is  finished." 

Night  came  before  I  was  ready  to  leave,  and  as  I  looked 
up  to  the  church  towers,  so  far  above  the  gloom  and  dust  of 
the  street,  a  rose-red  sky  tinged  the  church  that  now  stands 
where  the  temple  once  stood,  upon  the  summit  of  the  mound, 
which  once  flashed  its  light  from  never-dying  fires  over  the 
city  below.  A  single  light  struck  my  vision  from  the  heights 
above.  It  was  easy  in  that  glow  to  imagine  the  sumptuous 
pagan  temple,  with  its  fires  forever  bright  on  that  great  pile 
above  me,  with  its  terraces  and  truncated  surfaces.  Cortez 
and  his  successors  ravished  and  devastated  the  public  edifices 
and  splendid  structures  here  and  elsewhere,  even  as  the  Copts 
hacked  and  mutilated  all  of  the  best  in  Egypt's  temples,  and 
one  cannot  forgive  the  fanatical  zeal  of  the  conquerors  who 
destroyed  invaluable  records  of  the  history  and  nationality 
of  the  conquered,  but  these  pyramids, 

"They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea — 
Awful  memories ;  but  of  whom  we  know  not." 

Night  closed  in  about  us  before  the  last  mule  car  from 
Puebla  came  to  take  us  back, — eight  miles  and  dinner  at  the 
other  end  of  the  line  from  us.  We  were  a  weary  and  hungry 
party.  The  air  was  foul  on  the  inside  of  the  cars  from  smoke 
and  odors  not  of  Araby,  the  blest,  but  from  the  crowd  of 
unwashed  natives.  Outside  the  winds  were  cold  and  chilly. 
It  was  pneumonia-invoking  weather,  so  I  could  not  stay  on 
the  platform.  "Suffer  and  be  strong,"  some  sentimental  weak 
ling  who  had  not  an  idea  of  what  it  meant,  wrote  once  upon 
a  time.  I  was  suffering  and  not  growing  any  stronger,  unless 
it  was  in  the  desire  to  use  stronger  language  than  was  per 
missible.  I  spoke  to  a  gentleman  of  the  party  and  said,  "Why 
don't  you  say  things?  You  look  them." 

"I  know  nothing  that  will  express  my  feelings  in  words," 
was  the  reply. 

Just  then  the  car  stopped,  for  no  reason  we  could  under 
stand,  and  the  minutes  dragged  wearily.  The  gentleman 
tried  in  his  best  newly-acquired  Spanish  to  find  out  why  we 
were  delayed.  Again  language  failed,  for  these  people  who 
move  in  a  mysterious  way,  their  journeys  to  perform,  were 


i98  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

not  communicative  to  the  Gringo.  We  thought  of  bandits, 
and  all  sorts  of  horrible  things  out  there  in  the  black  night, 
but  at  last  a  shrill  sound  from  a  horn — all  drivers  carry  one — 
announced  the  fact  that  we  were  to  move  on.  On  we  wrent, 
and  at  last  reached  Puebla. 

We  rushed  out  and  saw  only  one  carriage,  which  several 
natives  tried  in  vain  to  enter,  but  they  were  thrust  aside  by  a 
muffled  figure  at  the  door.  He  saw  my  traveling  companion 
and  me  and  pointed  to  the  carriage.  This  struck  me  as  rather 
strange,  and  I  remarked,  "He  is  shrewd  and  knows  he  will 
get  more  money  from  us  than  from  the  natives."  He  jumped 
up  and  sat  by  the  muffled  driver,  and  we  were  driven  rapidly 
through  unknown  streets.  I  thought  of  sudden  disappear 
ances,  stilletos  and  detective  stories  came  to  my  mind.  There 
was  something  mysterious  in  our  being  whisked  off  in  this 
manner.  Suddenly  we  turned  into  a  well-lighted  street  and 
drew  up  in  front  of  a  hotel  I  had  not  seen.  A  form  glided 
out  from  the  doorway  and  talked  in  a  low  tone  to  the  men  on 
the  seat.  One  finally  got  down  and  handed  me  a  letter.  I 
was  doubly  astonished  to  read  my  name.  "The  plot  thickens," 
I  said.  "We  will  be  locked  up  for  unearthing  a  few  bits  of 
useless  pottery."  Then  I  read:  "Senor  there  are  two  Gran 
Hotels  in  Puebla.  This  one  is  where  you  are  at.  Your  bag 
gage  is  here  and  here  you  did  ate." 

I  was  still  mystified,  for  to  my  certain  knowledge  I  was 
not  at  any  hotel  just  then,  and  still  more  certain  that  I  was 
not  going  to  stop  at  this  unknown  "Gran"  Hotel.  There 
was  nothing  for  us  to  do  it  seemed,  for  after  giving  me  the 
letter  we  were  ignored.  But  there  were  more  curious  gesticu 
lations  for  a  time,  then  away  we  went  again,  through  more 
dark  streets.  Not  long  were  we  in  suspense,  however,  for 
with  a  flourish  the  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  hotel  I 
had  left  at  noon,  and  the  mystery  was  solved.  When  we 
failed  to  return  at  the  appointed  time,  our  landlord  became 
uneasy.  He  sent  to  the  other  hotel  and  finding  I  was  not 
there,  left  a  note,  and  then  sent  a  carriage  for  us  with  instruc 
tions  to  gather  up  the  Gringos.  Just  why  the  driver  and  his 
bodyguard  felt  the  necessity  of  going  to  the  other  hotel  to 
obtain  the  note,  before  taking  us  directly  to  our  destination, 
is  one  of  the  unsolved  questions. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  199 

The  question  of  vital  interest  to  us  was  something  to  eat. 
I  had  had  enough  for  one  day  of  what  had  been — or  the 
"Grand  Perhaps,"  as  Browning  has  it.  Too  much  wisdom 
of  guess-work  is  not  good.  I  wanted  the  crisp,  vital  air  of  the 
now,  which  meant  dinner  wherein  was  no  suggestion  of 
ideals  nor  idle  moments  until  hunger  was  appeased.  Then  I 
climbed  the  stone  steps  leading  from  the  court  to  the  cham 
bers  above,  and  looking  up  saw  the  stars  in  the  blue  vault. 
They  were  familiar  and  comforting,  and  soon  the  blessed 
Nirvana  of  sleep  obliterated  the  last  thought  of  pyramid, 
pagan  temple,  or  aught  of  earth,  and  rest  was  sweet  that 
dreamless  night.  Your  idle  FRANK. 


XXII 

"Love's  eyes  are  blind,  but  in  their  blindness  there  is  more  light  than 
in  all  other  earthly  things." 

ALICE  WRITES 

Inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  with  my  whole 
heart  answering  to  every  word  of  love,  to  his  every  plea,  yet 
I  could  not  help  but  see  the  fallacy  of  his  argument.  And  too 
well  I  knew  the  serpent  of  doubt  had  entered  my  Eden  never 
to  be  driven  away  or  destroyed.  How  could  I  know  that  he 
would  love  me  always,  were  I  to  go  away  with  him.  I  might 
be  left  desolate  and  alone  like  the  other  woman  he  was  now  so 
willing  to  desert.  Oh,  the  doubt,  the  torturing  questions  that 
seemed  to  be  driving  me  to  insanity;  but  it  was  the  greatness, 
the  overpowering  sense  of  my  sorrow  that  in  some  way  made 
me  feel  that  I  must  fight  and  try  to  overcome  it.  A  lesser 
grief  might  kill,  but  this,  while  it  seemed  to  shut  out  every 
thing  that  had  made  life  a  paradise  in  the  few  months  I  had 
lived  in  the  arms  of  my  husband,  as  I  thought  him,  left  me 
without  a  plan  for  the  future  as  yet. 

I  loved  him,  though  I  knew  he  had  ruined  the  pure  senti 
ment  within  me,  the  ideal  love,  that  was  without  sin  or  shame 
before  I  knew,  and  now,  what  was  I  to  do  with  my  life  ?  What 
could  I  do  ?— something  definite,  soon  and  very  soon.  The 
thought  roused  all  the  dormant  qualities  that  had,  unknown 
to  myself,  existed  in  my  nature,  and  which  must  have  come 
from  the  rugged  determination  of  some  of  my  ancestors.  Life, 
the  mysterious  gift,  was  thrust  upon  me  without  my  consent 
or  knowledge,  and,  being  possessed  of  the  doubtful  dower, 
I  must  make  the  best  of  it. 

I  think  of  his  letter,  and  of  going  away  from  the  place  I 
had  called  home  to  a  fairyland  of  make  believe,  where  all 
would  be  as  we  wished  it,  and  not  the  hard  reality  these  few 
thinking  days  past  had  forced  upon  me.  I  find  myself  wish 
ing  we  were  living  where  religion  sanctioned  more  than  one 


FROM   THE   WORLD  201 

wife.  Oh,  surely,  if  it  were  right  in  one  place,  why  not  in 
another?  If  only  it  might  be,  and  then  a  thought  struck  me 
—he  had  said  the  wife's  name  was  "Ruth."  What  if  it  were 
the  girl  I  hated.  Why,  I  could  laugh  at  her  now,  for  if  it 
were  she,  how  I  would  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  I  had  pos 
session  of  her  husband,  body  and  soul. 

Then  a  thought,  midnight  in  blackness,  struck  me  as  I 
recalled  her  words,  "Unclean  and  spotted  from  the  world." 

0  God,  I  now  knew  in  all  its  intensity  the  meaning  of  the 
chance  words.    No,  I  reasoned,  I  will  not  have  it  so.    Before 
God  I  am  innocent !    1  will  not  endure  the  shame,  the  wrong. 
We  will  go  where  I  may  be  made  his  wife  and  the  laws  shall 
be  respected;  if  another  must  be  sacrificed,  so  be  it.    He  shall 
be  mine  and  mine  only. 

I  had  read  many  books  in  the  library  at  Brownings,  some 

1  scarcely  understood,  but  now  I  know  the  meaning,  and  recall 
certain  strange,  religious  rites. 

I  remember  that  away  back  in  the  phallic  or  sex-worship 
ping  days  woman  gave  herself  to  the  divinity  first.  Well,  the 
man  I  love,  despite  everything,  was  my  church,  my  religion, 
my  all.  And  I  gave  myself  to  him  with  as  pure  a  heart  and 
stainless  life  as  any  vestal  virgin  of  old.  If  in  the  early  ages 
women  dedicated  themselves  to  the  temples  for  a  religious 
purpose,  surely  if  not  wrong  then  it  might  not  be  wrong  now 
for  a  woman  to  lay  her  heart,  her  whole  being  on  the  altar  of 
love. 

I  was  innocent  then,  for  I  believed  myself  consecrated  by 
marriage.  1  did  not  know  that  another  had  a  prior  right,  or 
that  the  hours  of  bliss  I  enjoyed  would  of  necessity  give  hours 
of  sorrow  to  another.  If  she  loved  him,  with  only  a  shadow 
of  the  love  I  felt  for  him,  the  thought  of  losing  him  would  be 
like  the  cold  hand  of  death  pressing  down  on  her  heart.  I 
knew  that  I  was  taking  the  wine  of  life  from  her,  and  she 
was  left  the  dregs  or  refuse  of  a  love  which  she  at  least  had 
thought  to  be  hers. 

Heaven  help  me  to  do  what  is  right !  I  am  so  weak  and  I 
love  him.  That  is  the  worst  of  it,  despite  everything.  The 
wrong,  the  burden  he  has  cast  upon  my  life;  I  love  him  to 
my  sorrow.  "God  sends  the  little  ones."  Why,  oh  why  did 


202  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

he  send  me,  if  he  loved  me,  into  this  world  where  my  inherit 
ance  seems  to  be  only  misery  and  wretchedness? 

With  him  whom  I  love  I  can  have  happiness  at  any  cost— 
and  guiltless  misery  away  from  him.     To  endure,  to  over 
come,  may  count  in  one's  mental  and  spiritual  growth.     But 
can  I  overcome?     Ahy  me,  in  whatever  direction  1  turn  I  see 
only  a  blank  wall;  no  way  of  escape  from  myself. 

I  have  no  one  in  whom  I  can  confide;  I  must  bear  it  alone, 
only  Heaven  can  help  me  !  And  I  look  up  at  the  stars,  and  in 
their  glittering  rays  find  not  one  beam  of  comfort. 

Why  should  I  expect  anything?  God  has  toi  gotten  me 
else  He  would  not  have  permitted  me  to  suffer,  to  be  lost.  He 
knew,  He  who  said  to  Mary  Magdalene,  "Go  thou,  and  sin 
no  more."  Could  He  not,  out  of  the  countless  throngs  of 
angels,  have  allowed  one  to  come  to  me  that  I  might  have 
had  one  whispered  word  of  caution,  one  glimpse  into  the 
future  which  in  all  its  horror  was  to  open  my  eyes  so  soon. 

So  I  think  and  try  to  reason,  but  I  gain  no  peace,  no  rest 
from  the  thoughts  that  come  thick  and  fast  until  I  am  almost 
crazed,  yet  no  definite  plan  comes  to  me. 

Then  I  remembered  a  sentence  I  had  read  somewhere, 
"Everlasting  life  will  be  yours  if  you  deserve  it;  your  present 
belief  or  disbelief  does  not  effect  the  issue." 

A  light  seemed  to  shine  through  my  mental  darkness.  If 
I  "deserved  it!"  1  might  then  enjoy  as  much  in  the  life  to 
come  as  any  other  soul;  if  so,  why  should  1  worry  or  fret  over 
unsolved  questions?  Here  was  something  tangible — if  ever 
lasting  life  would  be  mine,  if  I  deserved  it — why  might  not 
my  life  on  earth  be  worth  while  for  myself  at  least,  if  I  proved 
myself  worthy?  And  then  certain  other  words  came  up  be 
fore  my  mental  vision.  "All  life  is  a  prayer,  strong  natures 
pray  most  and  every  sincere  earnest  prayer  is  answered." 
Then  henceforth  in  my  weak  way,  my  life  should  be  a  prayer 
and  surely  the  way  would  be  shown  me. 

I  went  to  sleep  that  night  in  a  more  quiet  frame  of  mind 
feeling  somehow,  that  I  was  strengthened  and  sustained  by 
unknown  forces.  In  my  dreams  I  wandered  through  a  wil 
derness,  bewildered  by  a  maze  of  paths  crossing  and  re-cross 
ing  in  interminable  confusion,  extending  on  and  on  into  thick 
shadows. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  203 

For  ages,  it  seemed  I  wandered,  endeavoring  to  find  a  way 
out  of  the  labyrinth  that  encompassed  me  like  spider-webs. 
Ages  of  fruitless  endeavor  in  hopeless  search  for  something 
better  and  more  satisfying  were  spent.  Still  I  was  searching 
for  something  I  knew  not  what,  when  suddenly  a  straight 
path,  extending  from  the  intricate  and  confused  lines  lay  be 
fore  me,  and  at  the  beginning  was  a  sign  with  only  one  word, 
"Alone." 

And  then  as  my  eyes  followed  the  path,  in  the  dim  misty 
distance  I  saw  a  vague  shadowy  form  with  arms  extended 
towards  me,  and  the  face — oh,  how  it  thrilled  me  with  joy  !— 
it  was  the  face  that  used  to  bend  over  me  when  I  awakened, 
and  the  same  arms  that  lifted  me  to  the  untold  happiness  of  a 
tender  love  were  now  entreating  me  to  come  of  my  own 
accord. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  succession  of  rollicking  notes,  and 
realized  that  a  linnet  had  perched  upon  a  rosebush  twined 
across  my  window,  I  watched  him  as  he  sang  in  all  the 
abandon  of  joy  as  he  poured  forth  his  untaught  notes  from 
his  little  red  throat — a  vivified  atom — happy  because  he  was 
free.  Ah,  I  thought  that  is  the  idea,  he  is  free  to  do  exactly 
as  he  pleases;  there  are  no  laws  to  govern  him.  He  is  only 
a  little  bird,  but  how  delightful  it  must  be  to  wander  un- 
trammeled  hither  and  thither  through  all  his  short  life,  care 
free  and  happy;  because  he  has  no  oppressive  thoughts  of 
right  or  wrong. 

And  then  I  wondered  why  God  ordained  that  we  should 
suffer,  when  every  created  thing  in  the  world  except  poor 
humanity  is  free  from  the  burden  of  thought. 

1  tried  to  reason  'with  my  conscience,  that  there  was  no 
human  being  worth  the  sacrifice  of  my  happiness  or  my 
life.  Why  not  live  my  life  according  to  my  wishes  and 
desires?  What  was  that  other  woman  to  me,  when  I  pos 
sessed  the  love  of  him  she  had  the  right  only  by  law  to  call 
her  husband. 

Ah,  there  was  the  sting.  He  was  hers  according  to  the 
law,  and  if  he  loved  me  as  he  said,  why  had  he  not  accord 
ing  to  the  law  put  her  away  before  he  had  cheated  me  into  be 
lieving  I  was  his  wife.  The  whole  force  of  his  deception  and 
treachery  seemed  to  strike  me  as  it  had  not  done  before. 


204  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

My  mind  was  growing  clearer  and  stronger  now.  No !  By 
the  memory  of  last  night's  dream  I  would  end  it  all  today, 
so  I  wrote : 

"I  think  I  could  forgive  everything  but  deceit.  You  have 
lived  and  made  me  live  a  lie  for  a  whole  year,  in  peace,  in 
happiness  and  tranquility.  How  can  you  atone  for  the  de 
ception?  How  can  you  expect  forgiveness?  The  world  was 
beautiful,  it  was  a  sweet,  pure  world  for  me,  for  I  have  been 
innocent  of  wrong.  But  can  I  expect  peace  now?  Even  were 
you  always  with  me,  it  would  be  the  peace  of  purgatory 
I  fear,  gloss  it  over  as  we  might. 

"I  see  the  birds  I  have  loved  and  envied  winging  their  way 
high  in  the  sunshine  up  toward  the  fleecy  clouds  in  the  blue 
skies,  and  singing  as  they  wing  their  way  towards  the  sea, 
or  high  above  me  swinging  on  the  highest  boughs  in  the 
sheer  delight  of  living,  as  I  too  have  sung  for  a  happy  year 
past.  But  now  the  thought  that  I  have  been  happy  because 
I  was  like  the  birds  brings  a  sting  of  bitterness  that  eats  like 
an  acid  into  my  heart. 

"The  happy  wife  is  not  a  wife  at  all!  Oh,  the  hurt  of  it, 
the  agony  the  knowledge  has  cost  me.  Looking  back  I  know 
and  feel  the  beautiful  trust  is  gone,  and  ahead  of  me  I  see 
only  ceaseless  doubt  and  uncertainty,  a  life  of  loneliness 
and  dread  of  what  is  to  come,  but  which  must  be  borne. 

"My  fate  was  to  meet  you,  to  love  you,  and  my  love  was 
based  on  nothing  stable.  It  was  built  on  crumbling  sands. 
Do  you  consider  it  a  triumph  to  have  filled  my  life  with  a 
joy  that  nothing  on  earth  could  ever  equal,  only  to  defile 
my  life  that  was  pure  and  white,  with  a  love  scarcely  grown 
cold  on  the  altar  of  your  home? 

"My  soul  cries  out  against  the  injustice.  Why  did  you  seek 
me,  an  innocent  girl?  Why  did  you  not  find  some  one.  a 
woman  of  your  world  who  knew  the  ways  of  men?  If  I 
could  only  know  that  you  might  be  made  to  suffer  a  tithe 
of  what  I  feel.  If  1  knew  you  never  could  be  happy  again 
in  other  loves,  I  might  feel  different.  But  the  strength  of 
my  love  seems  to  change  into  a  wild  bitterness  against  you. 

"I  want  you  to  forget  the  life  we  have  lived,  to  keep  away 
from  me,  and  let  me  forget — if  I  can — the  wrong  you  have 
done  me.  If  I  live  in  the  years  to  come  I  may  forgive, 


FROM   THE   WORLD  205 

because  I  have  loved  so  much;  until  then  I  will  not  see  you  if 
I  can  avoid  it. 

"You  have  crucified  me  upon  your  miserable  Calvary,  built 
up  of  excuses,  and  a  hot-house  love  that  would  wither  as 
quickly  perhaps  as  it  bloomed,  when  satiety  and  a  new  fancy 
struck  you.  There  are  girls  as  innocent,  as  young,  as  help 
less,  and  far  more  beautiful  than  1,  easily  found  by  a  "man 
of  the  world"  who  has  wealth  and  the  desire  for  new  sensa 
tions. 

"What  do  you  care  about  'innocence  and  purity  that  you 
speak  of?  You  had  the  opportunity  to  aid  and  befriend  me. 
You  had  a  home  to  which  you  could  have  taken  me,  and 
given  shelter  to  the  adopted  daughter  of  your  friends.  The 
life  of  sin  and  shame  you  depict  need  not  of  necessity  have 
been  mine.  I  am  not  penniless,  it  was  not  necessary  for  me 
to  walk  the  streets  searching  for  sin  or  employment. 

"My  thought  was  to  hide  away  somewhere  in  the  South 
until  I  was  of  age;  in  some  retreat  near  my  mother's  grave, 
until  I  could  do  as  I  wished.  So  much  I  had  planned.  And 
when  I  met  you  I  thought  in  my  ignorance  that  you,  the 
friend  who  had  promised  so  much  would  aid  me.  And  lov 
ing  and  trusting  you  with  my  whole  soul,  as  you  know 
I  believed  in  you  as  in  my  Savior. 

"I  can  see  clearly  now  much  that  was  not  plain  and  which 
puzzled  me,  but  because  I  was  so  unutterably  happy  and 
with  no  idea  of  wr^ng,  I  thought  that  everything  you  planned 
or  did  must  be  right,  because  1  thought  you  were  my  hus 
band  and  it  was  my  pleasure  and  delight  to  obey  you  in  all 
things. 

"And  now  you  write,  asking  me  to  fly  with  you  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  to  a  paradise  of  our  own  creation.  It  is  a  little 
late  for  a  paradise  for  us  two  now.  Had  you  taken  me 
before  I  knew  the  truth,  then  I  might  have  lived  and  died 
with  an  unshaken  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God,  and  man 
made  in  His  image. 

"But  now,  now  what  shall  I  say  to  you,  who  have  killed 
the  best  that  is  in  me — only  this :  I  shall  pray  God  to  for 
give  you.  I  have  not  enough  of  Christ  in  my  soul  to  say 
that  I  forgive  you,  for  you  knew  what  you  were  doing. 
Until  then  I  too  shall  strive  to  forget,  to  roll  up  the  days 


2o6  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

that  have  gone,  and  seal  them  with  the  seal  of  forgetfulness, 
as  I  fold  up  this,  the  first  and  last  letter  I  shall  ever  write 
to  you,  and  give  you  for  remembrance  this  thought :  Judas 
was  a  man  and  he  betrayed  with  a  kiss!" 

I  finished  the  letter,  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Andrews  with  instruc 
tions  to  give  it  to  the  doctor  when  he  came.  1  feared  to  keep 
it  lest  my  courage  fail.  It  must  go.  I  would  send  it,  though 
deep  in  my  heart  I  knew  it  was  a  lie. 

Hate  him!  When  every  fibre  of  my  body,  every  instinct 
of  my  soul  longed  for  him,  longed  with  a  fervor  that  fright 
ened  me.  If  he  had  wronged  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
he  had  also  loved  me.  Ah !  I  knew  that  only  too  well.  But 
the  physician  was  coming  and  I  must  not  falter.  I  knew 
that  in  order  to  save  myself  from  one  sin  I  must  commit  an 
other.  The  Ten  Commandments  were  explicit.  I  must 
break  one  commandment  in  order  that  I  keep  another.  For 
the  sin  of  covetousness  was  mine,  for  my  whole  heart  was 
hungering,  pleading  for  a  forbidden  love;  even  while  I  was 
false  to  myself  in  pretending  to  hate. 

There  were  no  explicit  directions  so  far  as  I  knew,  as  to 
which  one  of  the  commandments  it  was  preferable  to  observe, 
and  failing  in  one,  why  not  in  all?  For  I  could  not  deny 
that  I  worshipped  with  my  whole  soul  the  man  more  than 
the  Creator. 

Yet  even  while  I  faltered,  trying  to  find  excuses,  beneath 
them  all  lay  a  purpose,  inexorable,  unyielding,  and  I  knew 
that  though  I  fell  fainting  by  the  way  that  I  must  go.  I  saw 
the  road  like  a  white  band  of  ribbon,  gleaming  amid  the 
darker  lines  and  the  one  word  "Alone"  staring  at  me  where 
the  white  line  began,  and  ever  and  beyond  in  the  pale  gray 
mist  hovering  over  ridges  whereon  were  mysterious  tints, 
stood  that  one  figure  with  open  arms.  I  must  cleave  to  one 
and  forsake  the  other.  My  mother  had  not  forsaken  me. 

"He  shall  give  his  angels  charge  concerning  thee,"  flashed 
across  my  mind.  God  has  not  forgotten  me  and  I — of  my 
own  free  will — no  matter  what  the  cost,  will  tread  the  path 
alone ! 

Yet  another  letter  was  given  me  after  the  physician  had 
gone  away  with  mine.  The  last  I  should  receive,  I  knew 
and  I  felt  I  must  read  this  last  message.  It  began : 


FROM    THE    WORLD  207 

"If  the  magnetic  needle  of  the  compasses  used  on  ships  at 
sea  may  be  deflected  by  some  mysterious  magnetic  influences, 
of  masses  of  basaltic  rock  at  a  distance  of  a  great  number 
of  miles,  may  not  the  human  system  be  equally  affected  by 
the  magnetic  influences  of  another  being,  to  a  far  greater  ex 
tent  than  we  know?  And  though  it  result  in  shipwreck  at 
sea,  it  can  only  be  beneficial  when  the  influence  draws,  even 
compels,  as  it  does  me,  toward  the  soothing  restful  influence 
of  your  warm  loving  heart. 

"I  have  never  felt  your  magnetism,  your  wonderful  influ 
ence  as  I  have  during  the  hours  since  I  last  wrote  you. 
While  drawing  me  toward  you  across  the  short  distance  of 
waters  that  separate  us,  you  in  some  way  seem  farther  awray. 
Fanciful,  am  I  dear?  Yet  I  do  not  harbor  the  thought  of 
losing  you,  for  it  would  mean  the  shipwreck  of  all  in  life 
I  hope  for.  But  loving  you  as  I  do,  I  cannot  help  the  fear 
that  I  might  lose  you,  especially  as  there  must  of  necessity 
be  some  change  in  your  affairs,  unless  you  have  offended  the 
Brownings  by  your  sudden  disappearance. 

"Mr.  Browning  died  two  days  ago  and  I  learn  the  widow 
is  not  expected  to  live.  It  may  be  there  will  be  a  search  for 
you  if  you  should  inherit  any  of  the  property.  I  am  anxious 
for  your  sake  and  mine.  It  would  ruin  both  of  us  were  you 
to  be  traced.  Then  our  secret  would  be  made  public. 

"Therefore  I  feel  I  must  see  you  soon  as  possible  and  write 
today  that  you  may  expect  me  tomorrow.  We  must  plan  for 
the  future  without  delay.  You  will  find  it  best  perhaps  to  go 
away  for  a  short  time  until  we  know  if  you  will  be  wanted. 
If  so,  it  will  be  easy  to  establish  your  claims  if  you  have  any, 
and  all  the  more  easily  if  you  will  act  according  to  my  plans. 

"1  am  only  making  suggestions  in  order  to  prepare  you 
somewhat  for  anything  which  may  happen.  But  I  want 
particularly  to  impress  this  fact  upon  your  mind,  and  it  is 
that  we  must  submit  to  certain  formulas  of  the  law  if  neces 
sary,  but  in  any  event  1  shall  not  submit  to  a  separation  from 
you  my  darling. 

"I  want  to  be  near  you,  to  watch  over  you  and  to  do  every 
thing  possible  to  make  your  life  easy,  and  you  must  allow 
me  to  arrange  all  necessary  details.  I  want  to  spare  you  the 
pain  of  any  insinuation  or  suspicion  in  any  form. 


208  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Nothing  but  your  illness  would  have  kept  me  from  you  or 
prevented  my  coming,  for  our  affection — mine — perhaps  I 
should  say  has  reached  that  condition  when  I  am  prepared 
to  sacrifice  everything  for  its  exercise. 

"The  short  time  I  have  been  away  from  you  has  seemed 
years,  and  my  only  dreams,  sleeping  or  waking,  are  of  the 
time  when  I  can  again  take  my  dear  girl's  face  in  my  hands 
and  from  her  true  eyes  drink  sweet  draughts  of  love  ineffable. 

"Ah,  darling,  you  and  I  must  forget  the  world  and  its  opin 
ions,  in  so  far  as  it  conflicts  with  our  love,  which  burns 
brighter  as  the  weeks  go  by.  And  as  it  is  now,  so  it  will  be 
for  all  time  to  come.  My  guiding  star,  my  hope!  You 
my  darling,  you  my  love,  you  my  all !  Your  tender  presence, 
your  sympathetic  soul,  your  refined  nature,  represent  to  me 
the  definition  and  confines  of  love. 

"I  write  but  a  little  of  what  is  in  my  heart.  Tomorrow, 
dear  one,  how  tenderly  I  shall  whisper  over  and  over  the  old 
sweet  words :  I  love  you  and  you  alone !" 

The  last  letter  and  the  last  word,  "alone,"  is  engraven 
on  my  heart.  I  am  saying  good  bye  to  you  my  confidant 
for  a  time ;  and  the  dear  little  cottage,  the  only  home  I  ever 
knew !  I  am  taking  a  last  look  through  a  blurred  vision.  I 
have  told  Mrs.  Andrews  that  my  husband  has  sent  for  me, 
that  I  am  going  on  a  journey  south  for  my  health,  as  he  has 
advised.  That  she  is  to  remain  here  until  further  orders. 
She  seems  very  much  distressed;  thinks  I  am  not  able  to  go 
alone,  but  I  assure  her  the  distance  to  the  city  being  short, 
will  not  tire  me. 


XXIII 

"A   land   of  promise   flowing   with   the   milk   and   honey   of   delicious 
memories." 

Oaxaca,  dear  Jack,  lies  two  hundred  miles  south  of  Puebla 
and  was  my  next  place  of  interest  after  Cholula.  So,  in  the 
cold  and  gloom  of  a  day  that  was  to  be,  I  found  myself  at 
the  station  and  looked  in  vain  for  an  eating  room.  There 
was  no  vestige  of  anything  edible  or  drinkable,  and  a  jour 
ney  of  thirteen  hours  was  ahead  of  me. 

The  high  stools  at  a  counter,  with  the  familiar  plate  of 
life-preservers  and  unbreakable  coffee  cups  at  home  would 
have  been  welcome.  I  wasn't  drowning  or  catching  at  any 
stray  straws,  but  doughnuts  and  restaurant  coffee  would  have 
tasted  like  "mother's  best"  in  comparison  to  the  coffee  and 
bread  I  finally  received  through  the  aid  of  a  fellow  traveler, 
who  pointed  out  the  eating  place  to  me. 

It  was  on  the  outside  of  the  station.  A  couple  of  women 
hovered  over  a  tiny  charcoal  fire,  sheltering  it  from  the  bleak 
winds — and  the  coffee  pot  also,  that  tried  to  boil  in  the  frosty 
atmosphere.  But  the  coffee  was  warm  as  the  bread  was 
hard  and  cold.  It  was  a  sort  of  cold  storage  proposition, 
but  better  than  the  aching  void  that  clamored  for  something 
besides  scenery. 

Starvation  pangs  averted,  I  found  a  seat  in  the  cars,  and 
we  left  Puebla,  the  city  the  angels  are  supposed  to  guard, 
but  which  at  least  is  a  city  of  churches,  whose  domes  and 
towers  of  polished  tiles  looked  fanciful  and  unique  in  the 
gray  dawn.  Puebla  is  celebrated  for  its  manufactories  and 
the  effect  of  the  colored  tiled  roofs  is  pleasing. 

The  fields  were  glittering  with  white  frost  that  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place  so  far  south.  Yet  an  altitude  of  seven 
thousand  feet  counts  even  in  the  tropics.  Half-clad,  ghost 
like,  figures  showed  dimly  in  the  fields  as  we  sped  along.  And 
though  well  wrapped  up  and  in  the  cars,  I,  too,  was  shivering 
with  cold,  and  looked  with  pity  upon  the  unshod  laborers. 

209 


2IO 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


Fires  in  the  cars  are  not  to  be  thought  of  here  unless  it  be 
the  exception. 

The  only  car  off  the  main  lines  where  I  traveled  that  had 
the  proud  distinction  of  a  stove,  took  fire  shortly  after  we  had 
started,  and  the  affair  was  more  laughable  than  otherwise. 
I  thought  I  smelled  smoke  on  that  particular  occasion  other 
than  the  usual  tobacco  smoke,  when  a  gentleman  seated  in 
front  of  me  turned  and  said: 

"Do  you  know  that  the  car  is  on  fire?" 
"I  do  not  feel  any  warmer;  where  is  the  fire?"  I  replied. 
"Look  at  the  top  of  the  car  and  then  watch  the  natives 
when  they  discover  it,"  he  said. 

By  that  time  the  roof 
was  burning  pretty 
lively,  and  then  the 
conductor  discovered 
it.  So  did  the  women, 
and  there  was  a  hustl 
ing  and  gathering  of 
bundles,  some  in  their 
excitement  throwing 
them  out  of  the  win 
dows.  A  menagerie  of 
monkeys  wouldn't  com 
pare  with  them.  At 
last  the  train  stopped, 
and  the  amusing  part 
of  it  was  that  our  car 
was  landed  directly 
over  another  cross 
road  !  The  fire  was 

finally  extinguished  and  we  proceeded  on  our  way,  escaping 
fire  and  a  wreck  only  by  good  luck. 

This  digression  is  only  to  prove  that  it  is  better  for  the 
traveler  in  Mexico  not  to  expect  too  much,  but  be  content 
with  whatever  is  provided  for  the  discomforts  of  the  wan 
derer,  and  thankful  at  times  for  what  he  does  not  receive. 

We  passed  through  rich  agricultural  districts,  on  and  on, 
until  the  country  became  more  desolate  and  broken.  But, 
however,  straggling  the  villages  were,  it  was  surprising  to 


CARRYING   THE   OLLAS  —  WATER-COOLERS. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  211 

see  the  number  of  churches,  whose  domes  glistened,  and 
brightened  the  landscape  in  every  direction.  They  bear  wit 
ness  to  the  zeal  and  energy  of  the  Padres,  who  built  and 
worked  to  eradicate  pagan  rites,  and  the  peaceful,  simple  re 
ligion  that  now  exists,  and  these  churches  are  enduring 
monuments  of  their  endeavors. 

From  the  mesas  we  passed  into  a  picturesque  country. 
There  were  ranges  of  mountains  and  isolated  buttes,  with 
vivid  coloring  and  Pompeiian  reds,  turrets  and  shapes  thai- 
looked  like  old  abandoned  castles.  Bits  from  the  Old  World 
seemed  to  have  dropped  down  here  in  a  region  of  fantastic 
groupings  of  peaks  and  hills.  Yet,  it  was  all  nature's  own 
carving. 

We  slipped  down  and  down  until  we  were  only  about 
seventeen  hundred  feet  above  sea  level.  Everywhere  were 
to  be  seen  the  vivid  green  patches  of  sugar  cane,  and  we 
were  in  a  region  of  perpetual  summer.  Corn  flourished  in 
all  stages,  from  the  young  tiny  leaves  just  showing  above  the 
ground,  up  to  the  ripened  ears,  and  the  bright  lance-like 
leaves  waving  in  the  warm  winds. 

All  manner  of  fruits  grow  in  this  region.  Luscious  oranges 
and  tiny  bananas — the  most  delicious  I  have  ever  tasted, 
were  offered  for  sale  at  every  station.  And  at  an  eating 
station  where  the  food  was  abundant  and  good,  we  had 
delicious  lemonade  served,  which  was  far  more  acceptable  to 
me  than  the  tea  or  coffee  offered,  for  we  were  getting  a  taste 
of  the  tropical  heat. 

Along  the  road  I  saw  great  trees  with  cucumbers  growing 
thickly  upon  the  branches,  looking  like  those  we  have  in 
California,  but  they  are  eaten  by  the  natives  only. 

The  yellow  lovevine,  which  grows  on  weeds  and  shrubs 
with  us,  is  ambitious  down  here  and  climbs  to  the  tops  of 
large  trees,  a  golden  glory  flaunting  in  the  breeze. 

I  rode  on  the  engine  of  our  train  through  a  canon  scarcely 
equaled  by  any  on  our  continent.  The  road  runs  through  a 
dangerous  canon,  or  rather  a  successions  of  canons.  The  pas 
sage  is  never  attempted  at  night,  and  even  by  daylight  the  ut 
most  caution  is  necessary.  Most  especially  is  this  needed  in  the 
summer  months  when  the  rains  which  are  almost  daily,  loosen 


212  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

the  soil  from  the  precipitous  walls  that  often  hang  directly 
overhead. 

1  heard  many  thrilling  stories  from  the  engineer,  an 
American — they  do  not  trust  the  natives  here  in  matters 
requiring  a  steady  nerve  and  quick  brain.  I  also  learned 
much  that  was  new  to  me  of  the  habits  of  the  country.  Down 
here  in  the  southland,  if  an  engineer  runs  over  a  man  and 
kills  him,  there  is  no  fuss  or  trouble  about  it,  but  if  an  ox 
cart,  donkey  or  anything  of  the  kind  is  thrown  from  the  track 
by  the  engine,  animals  killed,  cart  broken  or  smashed  in  the 
usual  way,  the  owner  or  driver,  if  he  escapes,  is  arrested  by 
the  engineer  and  he  is  put  in  jail  for  obstructing  the  road. 

The  engineer  told  me  he  had  probably  killed  fifty  men, 
but  had  never  been  reprimanded.  A  little  too  much  of  their 
favorite  pulque  and  they  have  no  fear,  but  will  step  in  front 
of  an  engine  and  try  to  stop  it.  He  told  me  his  greatest 
trouble  was  in  forcing  the  native  firemen  to  wear  clothing, 
and  that  he  objected  to  the  meat  and  their  manner  of  cook 
ing  it,  which  was  their  especial  delight.  I  said  I  thought 
they  could  not  afford  the  luxury  of  meat.  Then  he  explained 
that  there  are  great  worms  to  be  found  on  the  maguey  plant, 
and  added: 

"When  we  stop  for  a  moment  near  any  of  these  plants,  the 
firemen  run  and  cut  off  the  sharp  needle-pointed  ends  of  the 
leaves,  impale  the  worms  and  bring  them  and  cook  them 
on  the  boiler." 

"You  surely  ought  to  give  them  some  pleasure,"  I  said. 
"You  insist  that  the  native  wear  a  shirt,  he  insists  on  his 
meat,  which  evens  things  a  bit." 

Then  he  told  me  of  the  intense  heat  in  the  canon  during 
the  summer  months;  that  life  was  almost  unbearable,  and 
extras,  like  the  worm-diet,  were  almost  too  much  for  him. 

I  listened  to  him,  but  was  more  impressed  by  the  scenery 
than  the  dress  or  the  lack  of  it,  and  the  diet  of  the  natives. 
I  watched  the  tortuous  road  and  the  foaming  rushing  river 
that  in  many  places  has  been  diverted  from  its  original  chan 
nel  and  forced  into  new  ones  to  accommodate  the  railroad. 
The  great  cliffs  tower  so  high  above  the  road  that  in  places 
they  shut  out  the  light.  Yet  they  are  picturesquely  beautiful, 
covered  with  a  red  soil  in  varying  shades. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  213 

The  beauty  of  the  steep  declivities  is  enhanced  by  the 
strangely  odd  growth  of  gray-green  organ  cactus  that  grows 
even  to  the  very  summit  of  the  peaks.  An  invincible  army  in 
solid  phalanx,  they  harbor  no  aliens,  and  except  a  few  varie 
ties  of  trees,  seem  to  have  complete  possession  of  the  Canon 
de  los  Cues.  Tall,  straight  as  the  pipes  of  an  organ,  they 
grow  to  the  height  of  from  thirty  to  forty  feet.  Bristling 
with  thorns,  they  seem  at  war  with  everything  foreign.  They 
are  the  vegetable  sun-worshipers  and  love  the  stifling  hot  air 
of  the  hills  and  of  these  furnace-like  canons,  the 
sun-baked  earth  and  arid  deserts.  If  in  the  shade 
of  some  rock  or  tree,  they  pine  for  the  sun's  hot 
rays  and  wither  away.  I  know  of  nothing  more  impres 
sive  than  these  gaunt  spectre-like  shafts,  in  groups  or  sentinel- 
like  on  the  verge  of  some  dizzy  height,  pointing  like  great 
fingers  toward  the  skies. 

The  day  was  full  of  strange  contrasts — first  the  high  table 
lands,  then  the  tierra  caliente,  with  its  luxuriant  vegetation, 
then  on  the  up-grade  through  the  canon,  where  the  water 
flows  toward  the  north  until  the  summit  of  the  range  was 
gained,  and  we  rolled  down  by  an  easy  grade  to  Oaxaca  into 
the  semi-tropical  valley,  the  pretty  city  that  is  five  thousand 
feet  above  sea  level. 

The  day  was  ended  and  so  was  the  railroad,  for  Oaxaca  is 
the  southernmost  point  in  Mexico  reached  by  rail.  Some  day 
the  railroad  will  be  extended  and  the  "backbone  railway," 
mythical  for  years  will  be  a  reality  and  North  and  South 
America  will  be  united  by  steel  threads  and  iron  ties.  Such 
ties  are  a  necessity  here,  unless  they  learn  to  petrify  the  omni 
present  cacti. 

Oaxaca,  where  1  found  cordial  greetings — thanks  to  the 
telegraph  wires  and  kind  hearts — boasts  of  being  the  birth 
place  of  President  Diaz,  and  in  the  vicinity  another  famous 
President — Juarez — the  "Lincoln  of  Mexico,"  was  born. 

In  this  small  queer  old  town  of  thirty  thousand  inhabitants 
is  the  Church  of  Santa  Dominga,  that  cost  thirteen  millions 
of  dollars,  and  other  churches  less  costly,  but  grand  in  archi 
tectural  beauty.  There  are  legends  connected  with  historical 
truths,  bizarre  decorations,  secret  underground  passages  that 


214 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


speak  of  troublous  times  in  ages  past.  It  astonishes  the 
traveler  to  see  these  magnificent  edifices  in  this  small  place. 

The  city  is  where  a  prosperous  Indian  settlement  existed 
in  1486.  Conditions  have  not  changed  greatly  in  the  rural 
life,  I  fancy  for  centuries  past.  The  natives  till  the  soil  in 
the  old  way,  use  the  same  cumbrous  two-wheeled  carts,  tie 
the  heavy  wooden  bars  to  the  horns  of  the  oxen.  The  whole 
of  the  burden  must  be  pulled  by  the  horns  instead  of  the  yoke 
as  we  know  it. 

I  know  of  nothing  more  barbarous,  more  brutal  than  this 
method  employed  by  the  natives.  The  sufferings  of  the  poor 


A    CORN   CART   IN    MEXICO   AND   ORGAN    CACTUS. 

beasts  are  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  the  brain  is  soon  affected 
by  the  weight  and  constant  jarring,  jerking  motion  of  the 
clumsy  carts.  They  would  not  tolerate  anything  other  than 
that  they  have  known  and  has  been  in  use  since  the  deluge. 
That  which  was  good  enough  hundreds  of  years  ago  is  suffi 
cient  for  the  present. 

Progression  and  a  betterment  of  conditions  do  not  worry 
them.  Their  thoughts  do  not  seem  in  advance  of  the  day. 
The  oxen  may  become  locoed  by  work  and  needless  cruelty, 


FROM   THE   WORLD  215 

but  an  Indian  would  never  use  his  brain  in  trying  to  devise 
or  invent  anything  different  for  himself  or  his  beast. 

And  so  the  soil  is  tilled  with  the  same  kind  of  implements 
used  ages  ago  by  the  tribes.  They  raise  everything  imagin 
able  with  little  trouble.  Wild  cotton  grows  on  trees;  so  do 
cucumbers  and  other  vegetables  and  wild  fruits.  And  the 
markets  were  filled  with  every  variety  of  cultivated  fruits 
and  vegetables,  and  were  the  best  I  had  seen.  They  spin  and 
weave  cloth  for  their  clothing,  make  their  blankets,  hats  and 
scrapes,  and  are  a  primitive  race. 

They  have  not  as  yet  learned  the  wiles  of  those  further 
north.  They  ask  a  fair  price  for  their  commodities  and  do 
not  seem  troubled  if  the  would-be  purchaser  objects.  You 
are  free  to  take  it  or  leave  it.  They  are  not  very  insistent 
sellers. 

I  attended  a  dance  given  by  the  Indians  in  the  market 
place  on  New  Year's  Eve.  The  men  wore  their  scrapes  and 
sombreros,  and  most  of  them  wore  shoes  or  sandals,  but 
nearly  all  of  the  reboso  draped  women  danced  barefooted, 
and  one  and  all  appeared  to  be  supremely  happy.  The  Gov 
ernor  was  present  and  the  Mayor,  or  Jefe  also.  Wine  was 
passed  freely  among  the  crowd.  The  carriers  were  preceded 
by  one  who  bore  a  transparency  announcing  that  the  "Hom- 
bres"  were  not  to  touch  the  wine,  it  being  the  gift  of  the 
Governor — was  only  for  the  senoras  and  senoritas. 

It  was  amusing  to  me  to  watch  the  women,  bashful  and 
shy,  yet  eager  to  taste  the  wine  of  the  Governor.  That  there 
were  lips  which  were  unused  to  such  indulgence  was  evident 
by  their  wry  faces,  gurgles  and  sputterings  following  an  effort 
to  swallow  the  red,  red  wine. 

Politics  and  an  effort  to  be  popular  with  the  masses  were 
evident  in  the  city,  for  the  new  Jefe  allowed  the  natives  to 
take  complete  possession  of  one  of  the  plazas  for  one  week; 
and  the  astonishing  number  and  variety  of  gambling  games 
that  occupied  every  available  foot  of  ground  showed  how 
thoroughly  they  enjoyed  and  appreciated  the  favor. 

There  was  no  set  machinery,  or  "your-weight-age-and- 
fortune"  prevaricating  boxes,  but  simple  games  and  many 
that  seemed  about  an  even  thing,  and  so  primitive  that  it  was 


216  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

fascinating  to  watch  the  crowd  chance  their  few  centavos, 
apparently  unmoved  either  by  loss  or  gain. 

The  natives  in  this  section  of  the  country  are  much  cleaner 
and  more  prosperous  than  the  Indians  farther  north.  They 
are  not  migratory,  but  cultivate  their  own  little  patches  among 
the  hills,  a  few  being  thrifty  enough  to  possess  an  acre  or  so. 
They  speak  their  own  language,  knowing  or  caring  but  little 
about  anything  beyond  their  border  lines. 

1  enjoyed  the  quaint  old  town,  and  the  plazas  where  grow 
immense  trees.  The  wild  fig  trees  especially  were  enormous. 
They  give  a  grateful  shelter  through  the  day,  and  provide  a 
safe  roosting  place  for  the  buzzards  at  night. 

I  saw  these  uncanny  birds  come  wearily  home  in  the  dusk 
of  an  evening  as  I  sat  in  one  of  the  plazas  and  breathed  the 
fragrance  of  unknown  and  unseen  flowers.  I  watched  the 
strange  medley  that  thronged  the  paths  and  the  streets,  lis 
tened  to  the  soft  twitterings  of  birds  and  the  lilt  of  the 
Mexican  patois,  and  heard  the  softening  cadence  or  rhythm  of 
sounds,  soothing  and  sweet,  that  arose  from  the  city,  the 
thousands  of  voices,  the  music  that  came  from  stringed 
instruments,  subtly  interwoven  sonorous  waves  of  music  from 
the  church  bells  blending  sweetly,  yet  throbbing  an  exultant 
over  the  lesser  sounds. 

The  spell  of  the  country  fell  upon  me.  The  hurry  and 
uselessness  of  our  energetic  life  passed  away  for  the  moment* 
The  hunger  of  travel  or  need  of  excitement  was  gone.  I 
drifted  out  of  the  twentieth  century.  I  was  free  from  remem 
brances,  speculations  or  desires,  and  for  a  few  trance-like 
moments  it  was  as  though  experiencing  some  other  stage  of 
existence.  Then  the  old  sensations  came  back  with  full  swing, 
and  I  hardly  knew  why,  but  I  found  myself  repeating  the 
lines : 

"We  muse  and  brood 

And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 

To   lapse   far  back   in   some   confused   dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude." 

At  least  I  know  what  it  is  to  live  for  a  few  rr>o~rients  ^n- 
leashed  and  untrammeled  by  the  world's  environments.  And 
I  wonder  now  if  I  had  for  a  space  drifted  into  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  past,  or  rather  if  a  revelation  of  a  life  that  had 


FROM   THE   WORLD  217 

been,  was  given  me  or  an  understanding  of  the  existing  cir 
cumstances  of  the  primitive  people  here,  who  know  no  other 
world  than  that  within  their  narrow  border  lines  was  mine 
for  the  moment.  If  so,  theirs  is  not  an  existence  to  despise. 

FRANK. 
J 


XXIV 

"Do  you  believe  that  you  would  be  any  more  rtiy  wife,  if  a  form  of 
words  had  been  spoken  between  us?  Are  the  man  and  woman  forsooth 
who  are  made  for  each  other  and  who  would  cleave  to  each  other  through 
time  and  death  and  eternity  to  be  considered  less  married  in  God's  eyes 
than  the  wretches  who  are  bound  together  by  the  fetters  of  expediency, 
fraud  and  love  of  gold?" 

As  TOLD  IN  THE  JOURNAL. 

How  often  we  shape  our  plans  and  build  hopes  without 
counting  upon  unforeseen  things  which  may  in  a  moment  in 
terfere  with  the  structures  we  have  carefully  erected — the 
house  beautiful,  which  promised  so  much. 

I  planned  and  the  house  was  not  beautiful.  It  was  built 
of  loneliness  and  desperation;  but  out  of  a  determination  to 
do  what  I  thought  was  best  for  me,  and  what  seemed  right 
for  me. 

So  I  went  out  once  again  in  the  garden  for  a  last  look. 
Overhead  the  wanton  roses  were  reaching  out  not  content 
with  their  limitations,  but  flinging  out  long  pliant  branches, 
odorous  and  sweet  with  bloom,  into  the  arms  of  the  trees, 
which  in  turn  seemed  to  reach  down  tenderly  for  the  twin 
ing,  clinging  sweetness  that  climbed  up  to  their  strong  arms 
which  promised  security  nearer  the  sky  and  the  warm  sun 
shine. 

Involuntarily  I  reached  up  my  arms.  "Oh,  I  need  the 
strength,  the  security  of  something  more  stable  than  myself. 
I  am  weak  and  faint.  What  shall  I  do?  I  cannot  go  away. 
I  am  so  miserable,  so  wretched.  O  Heaven,  help  me !"  I 
cried,  sinking  down  on  my  knees,  striving  to  overcome  my 
failing  strength,  and  the  loneliness  that  oppressed  me. 

I  heard  a  step  and  striving  to  rise  hurriedly  caught  my 
foot  and  would  have  fallen  only  I  grasped  the  arm  of  the 
garden  seat  for  a  moment.  Then  I  felt  my  hand  removed 
and  I  was  clasped  close  to  the  heart  of  the  one  I  loved  better 
than  life  itself;  though  I  was  even  then  ready  to  fly  from 
him. 

218 


FROM;  THE   WORLD  219 

A  moment's  bliss  in  his  arms,  all  the  sweets  of  life  were 
mine,  love  filled  every  part  of  my  existence.  The  music  of 
birds  sang  in  my  soul,  flowers  bloomed  now,  where  only  a 
cold,  desolate  barren  life  had  lain  before  me  in  the  days  of 
my  illness  and  sorrow. 

I  knew  now  I  vvas  crowned  with  the  halo  of  love,  which 
is  woman's  existence ;  that  deep  in  my  heart,  were  I  denied 
the  love  which  I  knew  was  mine  that  I  should  not  be  content. 
But  I  would  be  satisfied,  if  like  Lazarus  of  old,  I  might  only 
have  a  crumb  now  and  then  from  the  table  of  his  love. 

And  all  the  while  he  was  raining  kisses  upon  my  face,  my 
hair,  holding  me  in  his  arms,  speaking  in  whispers  of  his 
love,  his  great  sorrow  for  me,  my  illness  and  the  grief  he 
had  caused  me.  I  struggled  to  get  away  from  him,  but  he 
would  not  allow  it. 

"Rest  here,  sweetheart  and  hear  me;  I  have  so  much  to 
say  before  I  allow  you  to  talk,"  he  murmured.  "First  of  all 
I  want  to  impress  upon  your  mind  that  it  is  impossible  for 
us  to  live  apart.  I  have  realized  this  while  you  have  been 
ill,  and  I  know  too  well  that  it  is  grief  and  not  sickness  that 
has  brought  you  almost  to  death's  door." 

Ah,  heaven  and  I  know  it  only  too  well  I  thought. 

"I  want  to  say,"  he  went  on  soothingly,  "that  marriage 
simply  means  obeying  the  laws  of  our  land,  but  love  is  heaven 
sent  and  heaven  born.  Look  into  my  eyes,  dear,  and  tell 
me  if  the  laws  of  men  shall  weigh  heavier  in  the  balance  than 
love,  the  higher  and  truer.  Would  you  allow  the  lower  to 
crowd  out  the  higher  gift,  the  sweeter  law  of  God  ?  Think  of 
this  moment  of  happiness.  Is  it  not  worth  a  whole  lifetime, 
lying  before  us  bleak  and  dreary  without  love,  warm  and 
glowing,  and  rich  with  it.  Our  hearts,  our  souls  can  never 
be  divided.  We  have  entered  into  love's  realm;  and  the 
complete  realization  of  love,  such  as  most  human  beings 
long  for,  fills  our  hearts,  our  lives,  which  can  never  more  be 
separated.  My  sweet,  it  was  the  guiding  hand  of  heaven  that 
brought  you  into  my  life,  my  innocent  little  flower,  the 
fairest  and  dearest  in  all  the  world,  to  help  me,  to  diffuse 
your  sweetness  into  my  life.  With  you  I  shall  be  a  better 
man,  for  you  are  an  incentive,  you  bring  forth  the  best  im 
pulses  of  my  nature." 


220  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Oh,  how  can  you  say  these  things?"  I  cried.  "The  best 
impulses  of  your  nature  when  for  me  you  have  forgotten  your 
vows  to  your  lawful  wife." 

"Yes,  lawful  in  the  sense  of  the  law  only,  but  by  every 
divine  law  I  am  yours,  and  you  have  saved  me  from  tempta 
tion  of  which  you  know  nothing.  I  was 'plunging  headlong 
into  vice  when  you  came  like  a  star  and  saved  me  from  my 
self.  I  can  see  the  question  in  your  eyes,  and  will  say  that 
even  had  I  not  found  you  and  your  dear  satisfying  love,  that 
I  should  soon  have  arranged  for  a  separation  from  my  wife; 
1  hoped  it  would  have  been  accomplished  by  this  time,  but 
have  not  been  able  to  do  so  yet." 

"All  that  you  say  may  be  true,  but  does  not  change  the 
fact  that  you  have  practiced  an  unpardonable  deception  on 
me,"  I  cried.  "And  now  you  come  to  me  when  I  am  least 
able  to  withstand  your  love,  your  entreaties.  Why  did  you 
come  today?  Did  you  not  receive  my  letter?" 

"No,  I  could  not  wait  to  see  the  physician.  I  wanted  to 
see  you,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  needed  me  today,  and 
I  think  I  came  at  the  right  moment.  Mrs.  Andrews  told  me 
you  were  going  to  come  to  me.  I  was  astonished,  but  merely 
said  I  had  come  for  you.  Now  tell  me  what  it  means?  The 
idea  of  you  going  away  from  here  when  you  are  so  weak 
that  you  can  scarcely  stand." 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not  receive  my  letter,  for  it 
would  have  spared  us  both  some  bitter  moments;  for  I  am 
going  away.  It  was  an  excuse  to  get  away  from  here.  I  had 
no  intention  of  going  to  you  or  ever  seeing  you  again." 

He  turned  more  fully  toward  me,  and  his  face  grew 
ghastly,  the  pallor  deepening  until  I  thought  he  would  faint. 

"Leave  me?  Never  see  me  again?  Oh,  you  could  not  be 
so  cruel!"  Then  with  a  half  sob  he  caught  hold  of  my 
hands. 

"Do  you  not  know  that  this  earth  is  not  large  enough  for 
you  to  go  beyond  the  reach  of  these  arms;  that  my  love  would 
take  me  unerringly  to  you  wherever  you  might  hide?  Ask 
your  own  heart  if  it  be  not  so.  You  must  not  think  of  doing 
this  dreadful  thing.  You  would  be  far  more  guilty  going 
away  than  you  think,  for  you  would  have  murder  on  your 
soul." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  221 

"Murder,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"That  I  shall  not  live  without  you,"  he  replied.  "I  mean 
it,  I  do  not  want  to  frighten  you,  but  I  want  you  to  know 
beyond  all  doubt  that  you  are  all  and  more  than  life  to  me. 
And  denied  your  presence,  it  will  be  an  easy  matter  to  end 
this  suffering  and  a  useless  life." 

I  was  horrified  at  the  earnestness  of  purpose  which  was 
evident,  and  all  the  while  there  was  something  in  my  heart 
that  was  pleading  for  him  and  myself. 

Why  should  we  both  be  sacrificed?  I  thought.  If  he  could 
not  love  the  one  who  bore  his  name,  if  in  time  he  could 
arrange  that  we  two  might  face  the  world  and  declare  our 
love  as  the  one  thing  right  in  marriage  according  to  the 
world's  ruling;  surely  we  might  have  the  one  little  remaining 
joy  left,  the  chance  of  seeing  one  another,  of  living  while 
we  waited. 

Ah,  he  knew  I  hesitated.  And  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
love  he  pleaded;  breaking  down  one  by  one  my  resolutions. 
And  when  I  pitifully  told  him  of  my  dream  and  my  convic 
tion,  that  it  was  sent  to  me  as  a  warning  that  I  should  go 
away  alone,  he  reasoned  with  me  and  said : 

The  wrhite  road  meant  Love's  road,  and  "Alone"  meant 
it  was  the  only  way  to  tread,  for  by  love  we  would  be  puri 
fied  and  saved.  "Love  ye  one  another"  is  Holy  writ  and 
we  will  observe  and  obey,  loving  one  another  now,  and  for 
all  time  to  come." 

Carried  away  by  the  intensity  of  his  passion  I  seemed  to 
have  no  will  of  my  own.  All  doubts  and  fears  were  driven 
away  by  the  magnetism  of  his  presence.  Love  was  enough ! 
I  could  not  fight  against  it  any  longer. 

Then  he  told  me  he  had  made  plans  for  the  future,  and 
that  I  must  aid  him  in  his  efforts  to  do  what  was  best  for  us 
both. 

"I  understand  your  secret,  Alice.  I  did  not  some  months 
ago,  and  my  first  care  is  for  you  only.  That  is  why  I  came 
to  see  you.  You  cannot  be  left  here  alone  any  longer.  The 
physician  has  so  instructed  me.  I  have  arranged  matters  that 
will  be  satisfactory  to  all.  You  are  to  be  known  as  Mrs. 
Bertram,  and  you  are  to  come  to  my  home  as  my  cousin." 


222  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Your  cousin,"  I  cried  in  amazement.  "Oh,  I  cannot  do 
it !  How  could  I  live  under  the  roof  with — with  the 
woman  who  bears  your  name."  I  choked  here,  for  I  could  not 
say  "wife." 

"I  know,  my  darling,  and  this  plan  hurt'i  me  more  than  you 
think,  but  it  is  necessary  for  our  happiness,  and  for  your 
sake  far  more  than  you  know  now.  Knowledge  may  be 
yours  in  time,  but  not  if  I  can  ward  it  off,  or  save  you  a  mo 
ment's  pain.  Ruth  knows  nothing  of  my  family,  and  if  it 
should  be  known  that  you  are  an  adopted  child  of  the  Brown 
ings,  it  would  cause  no  comment.  Your  parents  are  dead, 
you  have  been  in  a  convent  since  you  were  a  child  until 
recently.  I  think  I  can  arrange  matters  so  you  will  not  be 
called  upon  to  tell  much  of  your  past  life.  Ruth  is  not  in 
clined  to  gossip  and  is  refined  and  considerate."  He  paused 
a  moment,  then  added:  "She  has  had  a  great  sorrow  in  her 
life,  not  very  long  ago  and  will  be  sure  to  sympathize  with 
you." 

"Sympathy !  Do  you  think  I  want  her  sympathy?"  I  cried. 
"I  love  you  better  than  my  life,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
not  strong  enough  to  do  what  you  ask." 

"Strength  will  come  to  you  when  you  feel  you  are  doing 
this  for  my  sake,  and  because  I  ask  and  beg  you  to  be 
guided  by  me.  It  is  for  the  three  of  us  that  I  ask  you  to  do 
as  I  have  planned.  It  will  save  needless  suffering  and  pub 
licity." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said. 

"There  are  complications  which  you  cannot  understand 
now.  But  when  I  tell  you,  with  my  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  situation  that  I  have  been  studying  for  weeks  and  months, 
finally  deciding  that  this  is  the  only  feasible  plan,  I  ask  you 
to  do  as  I  wish.  And  I  know  before  very  long  all  will 
be  arranged  so  the  world  will  not  trouble  us  or  our  affairs." 

He  talked  and  reasoned  with  me  until  I  had  no  will  of  my 
own,  and  I  finally  said: 

"1  will  do  this  for  your  sake,  though  I  would  not  for  any 
thing  else  in  the  world.  But  to  save  you  a  pang  or  an  hour's 
trouble  I  would  do  all  that  I  have  done  over  for  you  and 
your  love.  I  could  die  without  a  murmur,  but  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  I  know  it — have  known  it — all  the  while,  no 


FROM   THE   WORLD  223 

matter  what  I  have  said  or  written.  Take  me.  I  am  all 
yours,  I  shall  live  only  for  you.  I  shall  drink  deeper  and 
deeper  draughts  from  the  fountain  of  your  dear  love  until 
mine  shall  be  the  bliss  of  a  draught  of  Nepenthe — the  magic 
cup  that  puts  sorrow  and  care  away.  So  I  shall  forget  all — 
all  but  you,  who  are  my  king,  my  prince,  as  when  we  wan 
dered  in  fairyland.  I  will  do  as  you  ask — because  you  ask 
it.  Nothing  else  could  induce  me  to  go  through  the  ordeal, 
but  I  would  do  and  dare  everything  for  you  and  your 
love,  my  darling — the  wondrous  beautiful  love  which  fills 
my  heart,  my  soul,  for  I  feel  no  suffering,  no  heartache  will  be 
too  hard  to  endure,  if  in  the  end  I  have  the  recompense  of 
your  arms  about  me  to  sustain  me.  I  shall  need  all  of  your 
heart,  all  your  sympathy  and  tenderness  to  help  me  in  doing 
what  you  tell  me  I  must  do.  But  once  again  I  beg  of  you  to 
try  to  devise  some  other  way.  Is  there  nothing  left  but 
this  alternative?  Could  you  not  in  time  learn  to  forget  me 
and  be  happy  with — the  one  you  once  loved?" 

"Do  not  speak  of  it  ever  again,"  he  said  almost  roughly. 
"I  once  thought  before  I  met  you,  my  Alice — before  your 
face  with  its  wonderful  star-lit  eyes  drew  my  heart,  my  soul 
to  yours  in  indissoluble  union  that  I  loved  Ruth  Carrington. 
But  though  I  married  her,  I  soon  learned  we  were  not  con 
genial  to  each  other.  She  had  a  sweet  disposition  I  knew, 
but  did  not  know  that  she  was  too  rigid  in  her  views  of  life — 
as  I  understand  and  appreciate  it.  The  touch  of  Bohemian- 
ism  in  my  nature,  good  times  with  a  jolly  crowd,  I  soon  found 
were  not  to  her  liking.  She  ought  to  have  married  a  minister. 
She  wanted  a  quiet  home  life  and  whatever  social  affairs  we 
had,  was  simply  because  I  desired  them.  We  could  not  agree 
on  matters  of  social  life,  and  she  chose  to  isolate  herself  more 
and  more  shortly  after  we  were  married,  until  finally  I  went 
alone  everywhere." 

All  the  while  he  was  speaking,  my  mind  was  in  a  whirl. 
"Ruth  Carrington."  Ah,  I  remembered  the  name  too  well. 
So  she  was  my  old  enemy!  She,  the  girl  I  had  disliked  since 
I  was  a  child — she,  the  one  I  had  always  desired  to  meet, 
and  my  prayers  had  been  that  I  might  be  more  beautiful 
than  she.  Surely  I  was — for  I  had  gained  the  love  of  the 
man  whose  name  she  bore.  Like  lightning  the  thoughts 


224  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

flashed  through  my  brain.  Indecision,  scruples  and  doubts 
were  all  swept  aside.  I  would  go.  I  would  triumph  over 
my  enemy,  and  furthermore  I  would  possess  her  husband. 
For  he  was  mine — mine  by  the  divine  law  of  love  which  was 
higher  than  any  earthly  law  I  thought.  T3  Ln  once  more  the- 
words  were  mine:  "Love  sacrifices  all  things  to  bless  the 
thing  it  loves,  not  destroy,"  and  I  would  dare  all  for  the 
sake  of  him  whom  my  soul  loved. 

But  of  this  sudden  change  in  my  feelings  I  said  nothing. 
The  triumph  would  be  mine.  She  who  had  scorned  me  and 
hurt  my  childish  heart  should  now  in  turn  feel  that  "mills 
of  the  gods  grind  slowly."  But  vengeance  was  mine,  and  I 
was  glad  that  I  now  had  the  opportunity  to  triumph.  I 
would  be  the  crowned  queen — she  the  dethroned  one  in  her 
own  domain. 

"Forgive  me  dear,"  I  said  meekly.     "I  was  a  bit  jealous— 
you  do  not  know  how  cruel  I  could  be — if  I  thought  you 
would  cease  to  care  for  me.     You  are  mine,  I  tell  you  now, 
nothing  shall  separate  us.     I  have  cast  every  scruple  aside  — 
I  care  for  nothing.     I  pledge  you."     And  I  picked  up  the 
glass  of  wine  from  which  he  had  been  drinking  as  we  sat  at 
luncheon,  which  had  been  brought  us  while  we  talked. 

"I  am  free  from  all  that  is  past 

"  'Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine, 

I  will   drink  to  the   thought  of  a  better  time.'  " 

I  stood  up  and  drained  the  glass — the  second  time  in  my 
life  I  had  tasted  wine,  and  continued 

"  'For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  or  law'  " — 

I  shall  care  only  for  you,  shall  think  only  of  you.  I  want 
no  remembrance  of  life  before  I  knew  you.  I  do  not  want 
to  look  forward.  Love  that  heaven  itself  with  you  is  all  I 
ask.  If  this  is  folly  what  divine  folly  it  is!  So  let  us  be  the 
veriest  fools  in  love's  realm  and  now  behold  your  captive," 
and  I  reached  out  my  hands  to  him. 

"Take  all  of  me,  I  am  thine  own,  heart,  soul, 
Brain,  body — all  that  I  am  or  dream 
Is  thine  forever." 


XXV 

"One  day  the  sands  will  loose  their  seal,  and  they  will  speak." 

From  Oaxaca,  Jack,  I  went  to  Mitla,  which  lies  on  the 
border  of  Tehuantepec.  We  drove  over  a  road,  one  of  the 
oldest  in  Mexico.  It  looked  as  though  it  had  not  been  re 
paired  for  three  hundred  years.  Six  mules  were  required  to 
take  me  and  the  driver  to  Mitla.  It  was  one  of  the  hardest 


HUT   AND   CACTUS   FENCE,    MITLA. 

trips  I  have  ever  taken.  A  drive  of  one  hundred  and  seven 
teen  miles  over  a  mountainous  road  in  Norway,  once  with  one 
horse,  was  like  riding  in  a  trolley  car  compared  to  this  drive 
of  thirty-six  miles.  I  ceased  to  wonder  that  so  few  travelers 
have  the  courage  to  make  the  trip.  Unfortunately  for  me  I 
had  read  glowing  accounts  of  the  Mitla  road,  written,  I  am 
sure,  by  people  who  had  never  seen  the  place  or  the  road— 
the  "up  hill  and  down  dale,"  broad  highway,"  etc. 

225 


226  UNCTEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

The  distance  in  California  with  our  horses — more  than 
two  would  not  be  thought  of — would  be  only  a.  trivial  affair; 
but  with  the  mules  attached  to  the  carnage  it  was  different. 
Had  the  number  been  doubled  and  the  lash  spared  the  poor 
creatures  I  might  have  been  more  indifferent  to  the  road. 

On  leaving  Oaxaca,  the  railroad  terminus,  I  entered  into  a 
more  primitive  country  than  I  had  ever  visited.  There  were 
no  telegraph  or  telephone  wires  with  sentinel  posts  guarding 
this  ancient  highway,  but  there  was  the  usual  medley  of  ox 
carts,  donkeys,  men  and  women. 

The  oxen  here  as  elsewhere  pull  the  massive  carts  and 
heavy  loads  by  the  heavy  piece  of  wood  attached  to  the  horns. 
All  the  products  of  the  country  for  most  of  the  distance  from 
Mitla,  and  perhaps  from  that  vicinity,  must  be  carried  by  the 
beasts  or  the  natives  to  the  city.  Now  and  then  we  passed 
small  villages  where  the  natives  live  in  huts  fenced  in  by  the 
ever  present  organ  cactus,  which  constitutes  about  the  only 
style  of  fence  here. 

For  once  it  was  refreshing,  however,  to  travel  through  a 
country  unmarred  by  hieroglyphics  representing  the  patent 
remedies  that  with  the  customers  are  sold  by  all  druggists. 
There  are  no  startling  announcements  of  ready  pain  producers 
and  hair  eradicators.  The  King  of  Soaps  had  not  sent  any 
telegrams  announcing  his  coming  to  a  country  of  the  great 
unwashed.  Liver  exterminators — nerves  extracted  without 
pain — had  not  passed  the  pulque  stands.  Health  foods — on 
paper  or  boards — are  not  necessary  where  corn  is  king,  in 
deed,  and  fruits  and  vegetables  are  accessories  to  the  fact. 

The  cactus  fences  are  free  from  the  word  painter  and 
poster  artist.  So  are  the  people.  Bacilli  and  bacteria  haunt 
them  not.  If  they  know  nothing  of  the  richness  of  possession 
why  should  one  try  to  disillusion  them?  Happily  they 
trudge  through  life,  and  if  their  shoulders  are  bowed  by 
burdens  they  have  been  real  rather  than  imaginary  or  mental, 
I  fancy. 

We  turned  aside  at  the  village  of  Tule,  which,  besides  its 
famous  "big  tree,"  has  more  children  and  dogs  to  the  square 
inch  than  any  other  village  in  Mexico. 

The  tree  I  visited — it  was  also  honored  by  a  visit  from 
Humboldt  in  1804 — the  tablet  commemorating  his  visit  is 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


227 


almost  a  part  of  the  tree,  the  bark  having  grown  over  it  and 
partly  covered  it.     It  is  an  ahuehuete  or  swamp  cypress  and 


CHILDREN    AT   GATEWAY    OF   ORGAN    HEDGE. 

looks  as  if  two  or  three  trees  had  formed  a  partnership  affair. 
They  have  grown  into  one  tree,  which  is  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty-four  feet  in  circumference  several  feet  from  the 
ground. 


228  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Passing  en  route  another  unimportant  village,  Tlacolula, 
we  had  a  glimpse  of  a  plaza,  market  place  and  an  old  church 
—three  things  that  help  to  make  up  even  the  smallest  of 
villages. 

A  plaza  is  absolutely  indispensable  in  a  Mexican  town— 
a  luxury  everywhere — but  a  necessity  here,  where  the  houses 
run  flush  with  the  streets,  with  seldom,  if  ever,  a  garden  in 
front,  and  the  small  box-like  houses  without  windows  give 
small  opportunities  for  fresh  air  or  sunshine. 

We  went  through  miles  of  country,  the  tedium  of  travel 
lessened  in  part  because  of  the  legends  and  historical  facts 
attached  to  this  region.  The  dust  blew  in  thick  yellow  clouds 
over  the  deeply-worn  road.  The  landscape  was  quivering  in 
a  blaze  of  light  that  had  a  somnolent  silence,  broken  often  by 
the  crack  of  the  driver's  whip  as  it  lashed  the  poor  beasts,  who 
were  quivering  with  fatigue  and  weakness.  But  there  were 
bright  flowers  by  the  wayside,  birds  sang,  and  everywhere 
there  were  bunches  of  red  on  twigs  and  dry  cornstalks.  They 
were  tiny  birds,  whose  bright  wings  flashed  in  the  sunlight  j 
as  we  passed  them.  Then  the  mountains  narrowed,  the 
landscape  became  more  desolate  and  cheerless,  the  mountain  ; 
slopes  were  barren  and  boulder  strewn,  as  were  the  fields. 

I  had  a  glimpse  of  a   few  Indian  huts.     A  low,  square  ! 
house,  forbidding  in  exterior,  greeted  me — and  dust-covered  ! 
and  weary  we  stopped  at  an  old  hacienda,  or  inn,   feeling 
almost  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  ruins  around  me. 

Don  Felix,  the  proprietor,  made  me  welcome,  and  I  was 
soon  refreshed  and  sallied  out  to  visit  the  wonderful  ruins  of 
Mitla.  They  stand  today  as  when  the  Spaniards  came. 
Valencia  visited  them  in  1533,  and  found  them  as  they  are 
now — vast  temples  of  stone,  beautiful  mosaics,  halls  and 
corridors.  Huge  monoliths  support  immense  slabs,  for  the 
builders  had  no  arches  over  their  square  cut  doorways. 

I  can  only  give  a  passing  description  of  these  ruins,  lying 
in  a  more  desolate  region  than  any  I  have  ever  visited. 
Egypt's  ruined  temples — Denderah,  Thebes,  Karnak, 
Assouan — and  her  pyramids  and  tombs,  lying  along  the  Nile 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  had  the  fertile  country  and  the  Nile's 
inundations  back  of  them. even  before  the  first  corner  stone 


FROM   THE    WORLD 


229 


was  placed — a  rich  and  prolific  country  furnished  an  abun 
dance  of  the  needful  things  of  life.  But  in  this  desolate  strip 
of  country,  guarded  by  equally  desolate  mountains,  it  seems 
that  nothing  in  an  agricultural  way  could  have  been  sufficient 
to  support  a  race  who  planned  and  built  these  temples. 

There  are  no  evidences  of  quarries  in  the  vicinity  where 
the  stones  used  in  the  buildings  might  have  been  obtained, 
and,  if  taken  from  near  Oaxaca,  there  was  .no  convenient 
river,  no  Nile  where  these  slabs  and  monoliths  might  have 
been  transported  to  build  these  temples,  of  one  of  which,  an 


M^« 


FRONT   OF   PALACE,    MITLA    RUINS. 


architect,  a  Frenchman,  wrote:  "The  monuments  of  Greece 
and  Rome  in  their  best  time  can  alone  compare  with  the 
splendor  of  this  great  edifice,"  meaning  the  principal  ruin 
known  as  the  Palace,  which  is  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
in  length. 

The  blocks  of  stone  forming  the  square  doorways  are  so 
immense  that  I  thought  of  those  vast  slabs  in  the  ruins  at 
Baalbac.  Yet  these  ruins  are  not  to  be  compared  in  height 
to  those  of  the  former,  being  flat  roofed,  with  low  walls. 
The  ornamentation  is  geometrical  and  the  mosaic  work  beau 
tiful  in  its  perfect  symmetry.  It  would  strike  even  a  care- 


23o  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

less  observer  that  the  builders  were  faultless  and  perfect  mas 
ters  of  their  art.  The  Palace  rests  upon  a  pyramid  recently 
discovered.  The  accumulated  soil  of  centuries  has  filled  in 
around  it  and  covered  the  pyramid  so  the  Palace  seems  to  rest 
upon  the  ground. 

New  things  are  being  found  in  the  ruins  in  the  old  world. 
Will  anything  ever  be  found  that  will  explain  the  ruins  of 
Mitla?  Mitla — Lio-baa,  "the  place  of  the  tombs,"  mystery 
of  mysteries,  unless  light  may  at  some  future  time  be  thrown 
upon  the  enigma.  It  is  the  most  vexing  problem  that 
has  confronted  archaeologists  and  students  of  American 
history. 

The  vast  extent  of  these  ruins,  as  I  wandered  from  one 
group  to  another — there  are,  I  believe,  five  of  them — aston 
ished  me,  with  all  previous  knowledge  gained  from  reading. 

Their  obvious  antiquity  carries  one  to  a  remote  era. 
They  might  have  been  contemporaries  with  Solomon.  Per 
chance  they  were  built  when  the  Ptolomies  were  erecting  the 
Temple  of  Isis  at  Philae.  But  the  veil  of  mystery  and 
oblivion  hangs  over  the  place.  If  there  were  parchments 
they  have  long  ago  faded,  and  if  there  were  hieroglyphics 
they  have  worn  away  and  left  no  trace. 

The  absence  of  rain  in  Egypt  and  the  dry  climate  have  left 
her  ruins  for  centuries  practically  intact.  But  though  the 
rains  have  pelted  these  ruins  for  unnumbered  centuries  they 
look  equal  to  other  centuries  yet  to  come  and  bear  evidence  of 
a  past  civilization  that  is  as  yet  a  sealed  book  to  us.  We  only 
know  that  here  at  Mitla  and  at  other  ruins  in  southern  Mex 
ico,  are  temples,  pyramids  and  sepulchers  whose  builders  are 
blotted  from  the  earth,  and  the  mystery  makes  them,  perhaps, 
all  the  more  fascinating. 

Hours  were  spent  in  wandering  from  one  apartment  to 
another.  There  were  open  courts,  long  narrow  rooms,  panels 
in  mosaic,  small  cut  stones  in  diversfied  arrangements,  exquis 
itely  done  and  fastened  together  with  a  rose-tinted  material, 
woven  in  the  most  intricate  patterns. 

There  were  no  representations  of  still  life,  no  shapes  of 
human  beings,  bird,  beast  or  reptile,  on  any  of  the  main 


FROM   THE   WORLD  231 

buildings.  But  on  some  old  walls  attached  to  stables  near  by 
were  some  paintings  nearly  obliterated  by  time  and  the  moist 
ure  on  the  crumbling  stucco,  which  were  Egyptian  in  character, 
and  a  few  outlined  figures,  seemingly  out  of  place  and  prob 
ably  the  work  of  some  late  amateurs. 

Science  and  research  are  solving  the  mysteries  of  buried 
temples  and  tombs  in  Egypt,  in  Asia  and  other  countries,  but 
so  far  nothing  has  been  accomplished  towards  solving  the 
mystery  that  enshrouds  these  ruins,  the  most  priceless  remains 
of  all  ruins,  and  of  an  ancient  civilization,  yet  found  upon  our 
continent — so  archaeologists  consider  them;  and  fully  im 
pressed  with  what  men  of  science  have  told  us,  and  doubly 
impressed  with  what  I  saw  and  felt,  the  toil  and  worry  of 
travel  fell  away  from  me  as  I  stood  upon  the  wide  stone  plat 
form  in  front  of  the  Hall  of  Monoliths,  and  gazed  upon  the 
broken  stones  and  piles  of  rubbish  heaped  here  and  there. 

A  Christian  church  and  a  cemetery  were  above  me,  and 
below  was  the  Indian  village.  I  turned  and  glanced  into  the 
sanctuary  behind  me,  and  felt  for  a  moment  as  if  the  robed 
priests  might  return  and  finish  their  prayers.  Then  I  went 
through  the  barren  halls  once  more,  and  then  the  church  bell 
rang  out  and  I  knew  that  the  earth  was  purged  from  its  old 
idolatries;  that  no  more  the  priests  came  to  their  long  forgot 
ten  altars.  They  left  these  enduring  monuments,  but  nothing 
is  left  to  tell  of  their  incantations,  their  sacrifices  or  manner 
of  worship.  Where  are  they,  the  tribes  of  other  days? 

"Did  the  dust  of  these  fair  solitudes  once 

stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion?" 

I  felt  the  ineffable  pathos  of  the  Mitlan  ruins,  over  which 
hangs  a  tender,  brooding  silence  and  sadness  that  is  too  hope 
less  for  consolation.  In  the  twilight  the  subtle  mystery  ot 
the  place  weighed  upon  me.  A  pale  moon  hung  over  the 
lonely  field  of  ruins,  barren,  except  where  a  few  trees  grew 
along  the  brink  of  a  shallow,  sandy  stream,  wherein  were  a 


232 


UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 


RUINS,     MITLA. 


few  pools,  and  with 
barely  enough  water  to 
ripple  silently  and 
stealthily  about  the 
stepping  stones.  A  few 
palms  and  bananas 
waved  in  the  warm 
night  air.  The  deso 
late  plain  rolled  back 
t  o  equally  desolate- 
looking  hills.  What 
space,  what  mystery, 
what  memories ! 

The  ruins  massive 
and  calm  were  a  fitting 
picture  for  the  pale 
moon-tinted  back 
ground,  a  picture  of 

unsolved  solemn  things.  Lio-baa — "the  place  of  the  tombs" 
—was  well  named  in  the  long  ago,  and  the  Mitla  of  toda)> 
means  a  place  of  sadness,  a  resting  place  for  the  dead.  For 
me  it  was  a  place  that  enthralled  me,  that  took  possession  of 
my  imagination,  and  speculation  was  rife. 

One  cannot  help  but  wonder,  and  think  of  what  has  been; 
of  the  race  of  men  who  built  these  temples — for  what  pur 
pose  we  know  not — all  that  might  give  light  upon  them  is 
gone.  Only  these  stones  remain  that  do  not  cry  out,  are 
silent  and  tell  not,  of  them  who  once  lived,  who  have  per 
ished  and  are  as  naught,  "neither  have  they  any  more,  a 
portion  of  anything  that  is  under  the  sun." 

In  an  ineffable  repose  the  fields  from  which  the  corn  had 
been  gathered  lay  gleaming,  a  brownish  yellow  in  the  moon 
light,  and  the  rays  of  the  moon  shone  on  the  fallen  broken 
walls,  and  lay  on  the  white  dusty  road  that  led  me  from 
them  to  the  hotel,  to  the  crisp  vital  air  of  the  present. 

After  I  had  slept  a  few  moments,  it  seemed  to  me,  the 
glory  of  a  new  morning  trailed  across  the  mountains  and 
down  into  the  tawny  valley,  that  lay  cradled  between  the 
mountain  ranges.  I  was  getting  accustomed  to  sunrises  in 
Mexico.  Almost  before  it  was  light,  my  breakfast  was 


FROM   THE   WORLD  233 

served  in  a  room  facing  the  court,  as  were  all  the  rooms, 
which  open  on  the  one  great  court  filled  with  trees  and  flowers. 

The  stables  were  on  one  side,  the  poultry  anywhere,  and 
cats  everywhere.  Six  hungry  cats  watched  me,  while  the 
barefooted  Indian  garcon,  in  an  abbreviated  shirt  and 
shrunken  cotton  knee  pants,  brought  my  breakfast  which  con 
sisted  of  bread,  coffee,  and  eggs.  There  was  plenty  of  salt, 
but  butter — "the  fruit  of  the  full-blown  cow" — is  unknown 
in  Mitla,  as  in  many  other  places  in  Mexico. 

But  I  did  not  complain.  There  was  an  open  well  in  the 
court  near  me.  It  was  deep  and  dark,  and  I  was  there  alone 
in  a  place  where  not  one  word  of  our  language,  and  only  an 
imitation  of  French  was  understood.  So  what  was  the  use 
of  complaining?  I  simply  ate  what  I  wanted,  gave  the  rest 
to  the  cats,  left  the  well  where  it  was,  and  started  out  on  a 
still  hunt  for  kodak  pictures  of  the  Indians. 

There  is  a  race  of  Indians  in  Mitla  unlike  any  others  in 
Mexico.  Their  customs  and  language  are  different  from 
the  others  further  north,  though  to  my  surprise  I  found  they 
understood  a  few  words  of  French.  They  live  in  houses 
made  principally  of  mud,  straw  and  cornstalks.  Their  corn 
was  gathered  and  piled  in  the  huts,  which  have  but  one  room. 
How  they  live  and  eat  and  sleep  is  a  mystery,  in  such  limited 
quarters. 

I  saw  one  man  who  was  ill,  stretched  out  on  the  bare  floor, 
close  to  the  corn,  leaving  just  enough  space  for  his  wife  to 
walk  to  the  heap  and  help  herself  to  her  daily  bread.  His 
pillow  wras  of  stone.  If  he  had  a  blanket  or  serape  I  did  not 
see  one. 

They  sleep  inside  or  outside  the  huts  on  earthen  floors, 
and  make  their  clothing,  spinning  the  wool  or  cotton  by 
twirling  a  small  wooden  stick,  much  as  one  spins  a  top.  Their 
blankets  and  rebosos  or  mantles  they  weave  on  queer,  hand 
made  looms,  one  end  being  fastened  to  a  tree  or  post,  the 
other  tied  about  the  waist  of  the  weaver. 

The  women's  dress  consists  of  a  short  skirt,  and  a  chemise, 
the  yoke  and  sleeves  of  the  latter  being  invariably  made  of 
knitted  or  crocheted  lace,  and  were  to  me  wonderfully  white, 
when  I  consider  that  the  pools  in  the  so-called  river  were  the 
only  washing  places.  The  mahogany-colored  arms  and  necks 


234 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


against  the  white  garments,  perfect  as  to  contour  and  color, 
were  artistic  and  picturesque,  and  from  the  young  maiden  to 
the  wrinkled  old  hag,  there  were  always  to  be  seen  a  string 
of  coral  beads  around  the  neck.  I  felt  that  Fred  had  made 
the  mistake  of  his  life  in  not  accompanying  me  to  Mitla. 

Theirs  is  a  life  of  monotony  and  toil.  The  mills  of  the 
gods  that  "grind  exceedingly  small" — to  use  the  phrase  to 
fit  the  occasion — have  not  even  in  the  palmy  days  of  a  super 
abundance  of  made-to-order  gods  found  an  abiding  place  in 
Mitla. 

Ceres,  however,  has  many  representatives.  Though  these 
dusky  goddesses  are  not  worshipped,  they  should  be,  for  they 
are  the  mills,  and  grind  exceedingly  small — the  corn  into 
paste  for  the  daily  fare.  They  also  gather  the  tiny  brush 
wood  fagots  for  the  fire  and  carry  the  water  from  the  river. 
A  life  of  hardship  and  toil  is  theirs  and  has  been  from  time 
immemorial,  but  there  is  a  saving  grace  in  the  fact,  that 
beyond  their  own  borders  they  know  nothing;  of  what  goes 
on  in  the  great  world  they  have  not  the  slightest  knowledge. 
And  verily  here,  "where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be 


wise. 


CHOCOLATE   DROPS. 


The  huts  are  en 
closed  by  the  cactus 
hedges,  and  the  yards 
are  filled  with  chickens, 
dogs  and  children.  The 
children  were  shy  as 
quail,  and  I  found  it 
rather  difficult  getting 
kodak  pictures;  but  I 
have  a  number  of  pic 
tures  representing  the 
people  and  their  sur 
roundings;  also  some 
of  the  unclothed  cher 
ubs  who  forgot  shyness 
when  the  coveted  cen- 
tavos  were  offered 
them.  They  will  re 
mind  me  of  Mitla 


FROM   THE    WORLD  235 

when  the  strange  babel  of  tongues,  the  ways  and  customs  of 
these  untaught  children  of  nature  will  be  memories,  just  as 
the  memories  of  those  massive  ruins  lying  on  the  dreary 
plain  left  from  bygone  centuries  will  be  mine. 

Silent  they  are.  No  voice  from  the  past  tells  their  secrets. 
No  tools  are  left  or  means  to  show  how  they  were  formed 
or  placed.  There  are  no  heartbeats  from  the  world  clicking 
over  telegraph  wires.  No  trolley-cars  whirl  by  to  disturb 
the  old  town  of  half  a  dozen  houses.  The  ruins  lie  in  utter 
isolation,  and  the  sun  beats  down  mockingly  upon  their 
carved  and  sculptured  temples. 

I  gathered  my  few  belongings  and  was  rather  thankful 
when  I  left  the  cell-like  room  whose  heavily-barred  doors 
and  windows  made  it  seem  more  like  a  prison  than  any  place 
I  had  ever  occupied.  Felicity  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
old  Don  when  I  paid  for  my  prison  rates.  Not  many  go  to 
that  out-of-the-way  place,  where  life  is  purposeless  and  slow, 
and  is  not  for  the  average  tourist. 

But  the  mocking-birds  and  parrots  shrilled  their  sharp 
notes  as  I  departed,  and  a  brilliant  flower  given  me  with  a 
shy,  sweet  grace  by  one  of  the  Indian  maidens,  sweet  as  the 
flower  from  the  cactus  that  points  toward  the  glowing  sky, 
spoke  of  life  and  hope  amid  utter  desolation.  Buenos  noches. 

FRANK. 


XXVI 

"But  just  tonight,  my  darling, 

I  would  give  the  world  that  we 
Might  be  singing  old  songs  together, 

With  your  head  upon  my  knee." 

Aileen,  dear,  I  have  not  written  to  Edith  of  my  troubles. 
She  thinks  I  am  happy.  Let  her  enjoy  her  wanderings  with 
out  the  knowledge  of  my  misery  to  oppress  her.  When  she 
returns,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  years  hence  when  I  am  happier 
or  dead,  will  be  time  enough  for  her  to  know.  I  shall  tell  her 
of  the  little  mound  under  the  daisies.  I  can  write  now  that 
the  first  hurt  is  over,  and  I  can  say  to  you,  my  guide,  my 
counselor,  that  I  cannot  grieve  for  her,  my  dead  baby,  any 
longer.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  growing  to  woman 
hood  and  perhaps  suffering  as  I  have.  In  all  my  grief  and 
loneliness  I  think  of  what  might  have  been  her  fate.  Her 
father's  blood  was  in  her  veins,  and  she  might  have  grown 
like  him.  "Sheltered  in  my  home,"  Edith  wrote. 

Well,  I  learned  before  many  months  after  my  child  was 
gone  that  the  grief  I  endured,  the  storm  of  emotions  were 
only  as  the  mildest  zephyrs  compared  to  those  within  the 
place  I  knew  as  home,  which  I  endured  from  the  man  I  called 
my  husband,  that  left  me  racked  and  broken  on  memory's 
wheel — fate's  plaything  and  helpless  toy.  I  could  not  come 
to  you  and  look  in  your  dear,  sympathizing  eyes,  while  I  told 
you  a  little  of  my  life.  I  shall  write  an  outline  that  you  may 
know,  and  knowing  am  sure  of  your  love  and  sympathy.  I 
have  given  you  an  idea  from  time  to  time  of  my  happiness, 
my  sorrow — and  later  of  my  fears  and  distress  regarding 
Bert's  actions  and  indifference.  That  anything  so  dreadful 
as  the  reality  could  have  occurred,  was  further  from  my  mind 
than  any  inconceivable  thing  imagined,  or  felt,  in  the  wildest, 
most  horrid  of  dreams.  Bert  came  in  late  one  evening  in  evi 
dent  distress.  He  was  pale  and  suffering  beyond  all  doubt,- 
yet  1  forbore  questioning  him  while  yearning  for  his  confi- 

236 


FROM   THE   WORLD  237 

dence.  I  could  not  force  it  by  asking,  and  with  the  thought 
of  repulse  also.  Finally  he  seated  himself  by  my  side,  took 
my  hand  and  said: 

"Ruth,  I  know  you  have  thought  me  a  brute  lately,  and  I 
have  not  treated  you  as  I  should,  poor  little  woman!" 

The  ready  tears  filled  my  eyes;  it  seemed  as  though  my 
heart  would  burst.  I  felt  in  the  moment  that  I  had  wronged 
him,  that  1  had  not  understood,  and  oh  the  thrill  of  happi 
ness  that  swept  over  me  at  the  mere  thought  of  a  return  of 
old  conditions,  of  loving  and  the  idea  of  being  loved,  petted 
and  caressed  as  I  had  been  for  some  blissful  months  after 
we  were  married. 

Then  he  went  on  in  detail  to  say  that  though  he  hated  to 
pain  me,  he  felt  he  must  seek  comfort  and  advice,  and  find 
solace  in  my  affections,  which  he  had  never  for  a  moment 
doubted.  He  said  that  he  had  a  cousin,  a  beautiful  young 
lady,  whose  father  and  mother  had  died  when  she  was  quite 
young.  She  had  passed  her  life  in  a  distant  city  in  a  convent 
until  the  past  year,  and  she  was  now  in  the  city.  He  asked 
me  if  I  would  receive  her. 

"Why  do  you  seem  so  troubled?  Do  you  think  I  would 
not  do  anything  within  the  bounds  of  reason  for  you  or 
yours?"  I  said. 

"Ah,  that  is  the  question,"  he  answered.  "You  may  not 
think  it  within  the  bounds  of  reason  when  1  tell  you  that  I 
have  been  worried  lately  to  a  greater  degree  than  you  can 
imagine.  The  poor  child,  while  under  the  influence  of  wine 
which  was  given  her  at  a  dinner,  was  led  to  believe  she  had 
been  married  to  a  man.  She  had  never  taken  wine  before, 
and  was  easily  overcome  by  it.  In  time  she  learned  of  the 
deception  practiced,  and  loving  the  man  with  her  whole  soul, 
even  though  she  felt  that  he  had  forfeited  every  right  to  her 
love  and  respect,  the  shock  was  so  great  that  for  weeks  she  has 
been  ill,  almost  at  the  point  of  death.  She  is  somewhat  bet 
ter  now,  but  hopeless.  I  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
doing  what  I  could  do  to  alleviate  her  distress.  But  while 
hoping  that  when  she  grew  better,  she  would  forget  her 
sorrowful  experience  and  perhaps  her  love,  it  seems  she  can 
do  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I  have  feared  that  her  mind 


23 8  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

would  succumb  to  the  terrible  strain  or  that  she  might  commit 
suicide,  and  at  last  I  decided  to  come  to  you  and  ask  your 
counsel." 

A  wave  of  sorrow  and  pity  for  my  poor  boy  seemed  to 
shut  out  the  troubles  of  the  girl  for  the  time  being,  then  I 
said: 

"Where  is  the  man?  Why  do  you  not  find  him  and 
demand  that  he  make  restitution?" 

A  peculiar  look  showed  in  his  eyes  for  an  instant  which 
startled  me. 

"That  is  why  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  on  the  subject,"  he 
replied.  "If  you  will  consent  to  receive  her — and  she  needs 
a  woman's  kindness — we  will  take  her  and  go  to  our  seaside 
home.  When  she  is  with  us  I  shall  have  no  fear  but  restitu 
tion  shall  be  hers.  1  will  make  it  the  object  of  my  life  to 
see  to  it.  All  I  desire  now  is  your  co-operation,  and  I  have 
tried  to  think  and  plan  for  the  best,  but  while  I  disliked  ask 
ing  or  to  trouble  you  about  me  or  my  relatives,  I  know  not 
which  way  to  turn  except  to  you.  It  hurts  me  to  think  of  her 
in  her  sorrow,  with  no  one  to  care  or  sympathize  with  her." 

"Why,  Bert,  darling,  did  you  think  me  so  heartless  that 
you  have  hesitated?  If  you  only  had  told  me,  I  would  have 
been  spared  a  great  deal  of  pain,  and  we  could  have 
arranged  for  your  cousin.  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  assist 
you  in  any  possible  way." 

"I  thought  you  would  do  so,  and  now  my  plan  is  this :  We 
will  go  to  our  house  at  Monterey — there  are  only  Japanese 
servants  there,  you  know.  She  will  come  with  us  and  re 
main  there  until  the  child  is  born." 

"And  then  what  will  be  done?"  said  I. 

"We  will  have  ample  time  to  make  plans.  But  now  we 
must  do  the  only  possible  thing  to  save  her  reputation.  I 
have  worried  over  this  affair  until  I  have  been  driven  to' 
desperation,  and  I  have  only  one  hope,  and  that  is  in  your 
wisdom  and  counsel.  I  have  thought  of  a  thousand  ways 
and  have  been  met  by  a  blank  wall  except  when  I  thought  of 
you.  I  know  your  goodness,  your  purity — know  how  youf 
sensitive  nature  will  revolt  at  the  thought  of  having  to 
endure  what  is  before  you,  but,  oh,  Ruthie !  for  God's  sake, — 


FROM   THE   WORLD  239 

for  the  sake  of  your  little  one — be  merciful,  help  me  to 
straighten  out  the  tangle  without  publicity,  for  the  sake  of 
my  name  and  reputation." 

"Your  name  and  reputation?     How  need  it  affect  you?" 

"How  could  I  endure  that  a  relative  of  mine  should  be 
left  helpless  and  homeless,  with  the  possibility  of  the  public 
becoming  aware  of  the  relationship?  I  have  been  driven  al 
most  insane  lately  as  to  what  was  to  be  done;  I  know,  how 
ever,  you,  who  have  been  a  mother,  will  understand." 

A  wave  of  sorrow  for  my  poor  Bert  seemed  to  shut  out 
the  other  revelation  for  the  time,  and  my  one  thought  was 
to  comfort  him.  I  shall  hurry  on  to  tell  you  that  we  talked 
far  on  in  the  night,  making  arrangements  for  our  departure. 
My  health  was  to  be  the  excuse  for  our  going,  and  also  the 
isolation  of  ourselves  from  our  friends  for  a  time.  I  pre 
ceded  him  a  day  or  two,  had  the  house  put  in  order,  and 
then  he  came,  bringing  Alice — Mrs.  Bertram  as  she  was  to 
be  called. 

She  was  beautiful  beyond  my  power  to  express  to  you.  A 
wealth  of  auburn  hair  waved  in  fluffy  masses  away  from  a 
dimpled,  babyish  face.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  of  a  violet 
blue  that  had  such  a  wistful,  appealing  look  that  my  heart 
went  out  to  her  in  her  helpless  beauty.  I  cannot  endure  the 
thought  of  giving  you  in  detail  all  that  followed;  it  is  like 
a  knife  in  my  heart,  even  now  as  I  write. 

The  days  passed.  Bert  was  very  kind  to  me,  yet  entirely 
unlike  the  husband  I  had  known,  when  we  were  newly  wed. 
Much  of  his  time  was  spent  with  Alice — she  was  very  timid 
and  helpless,  and  he  was  solicitous  as  to  her  health  and  also 
to  keep  her  from  grieving,  he  said,  too  much  over  the  ab 
sence  of  the  man  she  adored.  He  would  come  to  me  often 
with  words  of  praise  and  appreciation  for  my  help  for  him 
and  his. 

"I  think  no  other  woman  in  the  whole  world  would  be  so 
sweet,  so  self-sacrificing  as  you  are,  Ruthie,  dear,"  he  once 
said.  "Bear  up  bravely,  dear;  it  won't  be  a  great  while 
longer  now !" 

And  my  foolish  heart  was  throbbing  with  happiness  at 
his  words  of  praise.  I  felt  that  ere  long,  when  satisfactory 


24o  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

arrangements  had  been  made,  that  we  two  would  be  all  the 
happier  in  our  love  for  helping  an  unfortunate  soul  in  her 
loneliness  and  grief. 

Time  passed,  and  one  evening  I  had  announced  my  inten 
tion  of  going  to  the  house  of  a  poor  neighbor  to  see  about 
some  sewing  that  was  being  done,  saying  I  should  be  away  an 
hour  or  more,  probably.  I  had  not  gone  far  before  I 
thought  of  some  work  Alice  had  spoken  of  sending,  so  I 
returned  hastily  and  was  about  to  enter  her  room,  when  I 
heard  Bert's  voice.  I  stood  near  the  portieres,  the  door  was 
open,  and  the  room  I  was  in  being  rather  dark,  I  was  not 
observed.  Then  I  heard  Alice  say: 

"I  cannot  live  this  life  much  longer,  loving  you  with  my 
whole  soul.  I  cannot  endure  the  presence  of  that  other 
woman  who  is  your  wife  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Something 
must  be  done  and  soon,  or  I  shall  not  answer  for  the  conse 
quences.  Why  did  you  bring  me  here  to  torture  me?" 

"I  thought  it  best — in  fact  the  only  way  until  1  can  arrange 
for  the  future.  At  present  it  is  safer  for  both  of  us  here." 

"I  know  you  are  doing  what  you  think  is  best,  and  you 
know  too  well  that  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  cannot  dream 
of  life  without  you." 

And  she  threw  herself  in  his  arms,  and  he,  bending  over, 
held  his  mouth  against  hers  in  a  desperate  kiss.  Then  he 
pushed  her  head  back  and  kissed  her  white  throat  that 
gleamed  like  marble  in  the  dusk  of  the  room,  with  a  passion 
ate  intensity  I  knew  only  too  well  even  in  that  moment  of 
agony  he  had  never  bestowed  upon  me,  and  the  thought 
struck  me  to  the  quick.  Then  he  held  her  close  to  his  heart. 

"My  love,  my  life!"  he  murmured,  as  he  caressed  her. 
"Wait  a  little  longer,  and  all  will  be  well  when  you  are 
stronger,  and  the  child  is  older." 

In  some  unaccountable  way,  in  that  dreadful  moment,  1 
thought  of  Lot's  wife,  who,  while  fleeing,  had  turned,  her 
woman's  heart  pleading  for  one  last  look  toward  her  loved 
home,  stricken  in  the  instant,  because  of  her  love,  as  I  had 
always  explained  to  myself,  so  I,  the  dupe,  was  stricken, 
helpless,  rigid,  unable  to  move,  holding  on  to  the  portieres. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  241 

How  long  I  stood  there — moments,  minutes,  or  hours,  I 
know  not,  for  a  lifetime  seemed  to  pass  before  me.  I  have 
heard  that  the  events  of  a  lifetime  flash  with  lightning  rapid 
ity  before  the  mental  vision  of  a  drowning  person.  So  in  the 
brief  space  of  a  moment — as  I  fancy  it  was — incidents  of 
my  life,  of  the  moment  especially  when  I  first  looked  in 
Bert's  face  and  loved  him;  of  his  wooing,  his  tenderness  and 
love;  our  marriage  and  the  heaven  filled  days  that  followed, 
came  to  me — and  then  a  sharp  pang  like  a  knife  struck  me  as 
the  thought  of  my  dead  babe — his  child,  too ! — wrung  my 
heart. 

The  horrible  truth  in  all  its  hideousness  dawned  upon  my 
dazed  senses.  The  fraud  practiced  upon  me  struck  home 
with  all  its  sickening  reality,  and  I  fell  senseless  through  the 
portieres  and  into  the  room  where  they  sat  in  fancied  security. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  awoke  in  my  own  room  with  my 
maid  bathing  my  brow,  and  with  the  thought  that  something 
terrible  had  happened. 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  crying  about?"  I 
asked. 

"1  thought  you  were  dead  or  dying,"  she  sobbed,  "and  I 
have  been  so  frightened." 

"But  why?"  I  said,   impatiently.     "Can't  you  explain?" 

"Your  husband  was  in  the  front  chamber  with  Mrs. 
Bertram  when  you  fell  through  the  door  as  if  you  were  dead. 
The  master  carried  you  into  your  own  room  and  called  me. 
He  seemed  terribly  distressed  and  frightened.  So  was  Mrs. 
Bertram.  She  cried  and  wrung  her  hands  and  said  she  was 
sure  you  knew  all.  I  do  not  know  what  she  meant.  But  you 
are  not  going  to  die.  I  will  take  good  care  of  you  and  you 
will  soon  be  well." 

While  she  talked  memory  asserted  itself,  and  I  recalled 
every  word  I  had  heard.  It  was  as  though  they  had  been 
burnt  upon  my  heart,  and  I  moaned  in  the  depths  and 
intensity  of  an  agony  I  had  not  thought  it  possible  to  endure. 
I  told  her  to  go  into  my  sitting-room  and  lie  down  a  while 
and  let  me  sleep.  After  a  while  she  left  me,  and  I  was  alone 
with  a  grief  that  was  appalling. 

I  was  on  the  borderland  between  reason  and  madness. 
Reason  told  me  to  go  away,  to  fly  to  some  far-off  region  and 


242  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

save  myself  while  it  was  yet  time  to  do  so.  Then  a  very 
whirlwind  of  passion  and  hate  swept  reason  from  its  throne, 
and  once  I  found  myself  with  a  revolver  that  Bert  had  left 
in  the  room,  in  my  hand,  and  I  was  stealing  out  in  the  hall 
with  murder  in  my  heart.  There  was  fire  in  my  veins  and 
fire  in  my  heart;  my  blood  surged  and  clamored  for  revenge. 
I  had  passed  from  the  passive  state  to  one  of  vivid  energy.  I 
was  demoniacal.  Mind  and  body  seemed  to  burn  with  but 
one  thought,  one  desire — that  was  to  take  the  life  of  the 
woman  who  had  stolen  my  husband  away  from  me. 

A  life  for  a  life  was  right  and  just,  I  believed.  Why  not 
have  the  satisfaction  of  revenge  for  my  wrecked  life?  As 
in  a  vision  I  saw  Judith  with  the  head  of  Holofernes,  and 
then  a  figure  in  white  with  a  ghastly  face  stared  at  me  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  wall;  the  staring  eyes  and  dishevelled 
hair  struck  terror  to  my  heart.  I  retreated  from  the  vision. 
Then  all  at  once  I  realized  that  it  was  myself  I  saw  in  a 
mirror.  I  returned  to  my  own  room,  locked  the  door,  and 
looked  at  myself  earnestly.  Could  this  woman  be  myself? 
The  drawn,  pallid  face;  the  eyes  with  such  a  terrible  expres 
sion. 

Was  I  mad?  Was  I  a  murderess?  Had  I  already  com 
mitted  a  crime  that  would  send  me  from  the  man  I  loved 
and  bar  the  gates  of  heaven  from  me?  Ah,  no,  I  had  not 
committed  a  crime.  I  could  not  do  it.  I  must  wait.  Per 
haps  my  husband  would  come  back  and  love  me  as  he  once 
had.  He  surely  had  not  forgotten  every  tie  so  soon.  And 
then  again  the  thought  of  how  I  had  been  duped  roused  me 
to  a  realization  of  the  insult  brought  upon  me — and  in  my 
home — to  shield  the  guilty. 

Again  it  was  forced  upon  me  that  it  would  be  only  just 
that  she  should  suffer.  Then  a  soft  whisper  seemed  to  sound 
in  my  ears.  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"  flashed  through  my 
numbed  brain,  and  I  bowed  before  the  mandate  and  strug 
gled  for  hours  on  my  knees,  praying,  pleading,  asking  for 
help,  for  strength  to  do  what  was  right.  "God,  oh  God,"  I 
prayed,  "let  not  this  burden  be  greater  than  I  can  bear. 
Help  me  stay  my  hand  lest  the  sin  of  murder  stain  my  soul 
and  leave  me  more  wretched  if  possible  than  now." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  243 

My  dear,  my  dear !  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  never  for 
one  moment  feel  the  hurt,  the  terror,  the  overwhelming  tide 
of  sorrow,  that  drove  me  wild  and  made  murder  seem  pos 
sible  and  almost  right  at  times  during  that  dreadful  night. 

I  looked  back  at  my  life  that  had  been  so  happy — the  sor 
row  1  had  when  my  child  was  taken  from  me  seemed  so 
slight  that  it  did  not  strike  me  as  grief.  All  the  while  I 
seemed  to  be  whispering  to  myself,  "Thank  God,  she  is  at 
rest." 

If  she  had  lived  she  would  have  known  and  grieved  over 
her  mother's  sorrows  and  would  have  scorned  her  father. 
I  could  not  have  endured  to  see  her  shamed  and  humiliated, 
so  I  struggled  against  the  irresistible  impulse,  that  time  and 
time  again  made  me  long  to  take  the  loaded  weapon  and  go 
out  and  kill  her,  the  serpent  that  had  entered  my  home,  who 
made  life  for  me  a  thing  not  worth  living. 

I  was  adrift  on  an  ocean  of  misery — tossed  high  upon 
grief's  full  tide,  not  caring  where  I  might  drift,  and  inca 
pable  at  the  time  for  action.  The  night  wore  on,  a  light 
wind  fanned  the  curtains  of  my  window,  cool,  sweet  and  re 
freshing.  I  arose  from  my  knees.  Weak  and  weary  I 
reached  the  window  and,  sinking  down  on  the  seat,  I  looked 
out  on  the  sand  dunes  lying  white  under  the  pale  light.  The 
waning  stars  burned  faintly  against  a  gray  sky.  The  waters 
of  the  bay  lay  gleaming  beyond  the  undulating  shore  and  a 
faint  murmer  came  like  muffled  drums.  The  waves  beating 
up  in  sullen  monotony,  ever  and  ever,  yes,  and  forever,  I 
thought,  the  tide  will  ebb  and  flow — and  the  days  ahead  of 
me  !  Why,  I  am  young  yet,  and  life  can  be  so  long  when  one 
is  wretched  and  does  not  care  for  it. 

Then  1  looked  toward  the  East  and  saw  a  vague  but  cer 
tain  promise  of  the  dawn.  I  heard  the  far-off  baying  of  a 
dog,  ending  in  a  long,  wailing  sound  that  seemed  a  cry  of 
pain.  Two  figures  stole  noiselessly  through  a  fringe  of  trees 
lining  the  road  that  led  toward  the  station.  A  low,  empty 
laugh  startled  me;  it  sounded  like  a  taunt,  and  the  thought 
struck  me,  "why,  are  you  here?  Perhaps  she  is  laughing  at 
you  even  now." 


244  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

I  stood  up  for  a  moment,  dazed  and  uncertain.  The 
whole  of  the  black  night  seemed  like  an  evil  dream.  I  saw 
my  untouched  bed;  noiselessly  I  stole  to  the  outer  chamber 
and  saw  my  maid  quietly  sleeping.  I  looked  out  into  the 
hall;  the  house  was  quiet;  Bert's  room  was  dark,  and  further 
on  was  her  closed  door. 

Memory  plays  strange  tricks  at  times,  and  why  at  that 
particular  moment  a  scene  of  my  early  childhood  should 
come  before  me,  I  know  not.  I  shivered  as  though  looking 
into  an  open  grave.  I  saw  myself  and  another  little  girl 
playing.  I  knew  that  I  was  displeased  about  something  and 
that  I  said  to  her: 

"Go  and  keep  yourself  unclean  and  spotted  from  the 
world." 

1  had  not  seen  or  heard  of  the  little  playmate  for  years, 
and  though  memory  was  indistinct  about  her,  I  remembered 
her  name  was  Alice.  That  was  the  only  name  I  recalled. 
But  my  mother's  gentle  reproof  and  her  tender  words  had 
left  a  deep  impression  on  my  mind,  when  I  was  teasing  my 
kitten  and  singing  lustily,  "  Don't  talk  about  suffering  here 
below." 

Some  psychic  influence  was  about  me.  My  mother,  dead 
for  long  years,  seemed  to  lay  her  hand  on  my  head,  and  a 
whispered  message  seemed  to  strike  me  with  a  gentle  force. 
"Ere  the  day  dawns,  go,  abide  not  here!"  And  in  that  mo 
ment  it  was  plain  to  me  that  I  must  indeed,  if  I  would  retain 
my  self-respect. 

"Go."  Hastily  but  silently  I  placed  a  few  things  in  a  bag, 
and  stole  out  of  the  house  in  the  gray  dawn  and  hurried  to 
the  station.  I  knew  there  was  a  train  that  would  take  me 
away,  and  I  hastened,  terror-stricken,  fearing  that  I  might 
be  missed,  or  that  Bert  would  awaken  early,  and  come  with 
some  explanation  to  me,  and  would  find  I  was  not  in  my 
room. 

I  scarcely  arrived  before  the  train  came  and  I  found  myself 
in  a  seat,  breathless  with  dread  for  a  moment;  then  the  sound 
of  the  bell  ringing  and  the  puffing  of  the  engine  told  me  that 
I  was  safe  for  the  present  at  least.  I  felt  relieved  for  a 
moment. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  245 

Then  the  thought  came  to  me,  "you  are  needlessly 
alarmed,  perhaps.  How  do  you  know  that  Bert  wants  you?" 
Why  should  he,  indeed?  I  was  nothing  to  him,  I  knew,  and 
I  said  to  myself,  "You  have  been  used  as  a  shield  and  are  only 
a  wife  in  name — another  woman  has  your  husband's  heart; 
you  have  no  longer  the  right  to  be  there,"  and  neither  have 
I  the  desire,  I  also  thought. 

So,  like  a  guilty,  hunted  creature,  I  went  back  to  town  and 
drove  home  in  a  closed  carriage.  I  met  the  inquiry  of  the 
startled  servants  with  the  simple  statement  that  I  was  ill  and 
in  need  of  my  family  physician.  "And  the  master?"  "Ht 
would  also  return  soon,"  I  said.  Why  I  made  the  remark, 
I  know  not,  only  in  my  confused  state  of  mind  I  scarcely 
knew  what  to  say. 

I  can  recall  but  little  that  happened  during  the  next  few 
days;  only  dim  recollections  of  the  kind  old  doctor,  and  the 
gentle  care  of  a  nurse,  until  one  evening  when  I  saw  Bert 
sitting  by  my  bed.  He  was  pale  and  looked  worried.  For 
a  moment  I  did  not  realize  what  had  happened  or  why  there 
was  such  a  heavy  weight  on  my  heart  that  seemed  to  be 
smothering  me.  I  must  have  looked  strange  to  him,  for  he 
cried : 

"Don't  look  at  me  so  strangely,  Ruthie  dear.     It  is  Bert." 

"Oh  !"  I  gasped,  "is  it  you  ?  And  why  you  of  all  men  in  the 
world?  Why  should  you  be  here  in  my  room,  where  you 
have  no  right  after  what  has  happened?  Are  you  more 
brute  than  man  that  you  should  dare  to  come  to  me  with  the 
kisses  of  that  woman  fresh  on  your  lips,  with  the  slime  of  a 
disgusting,  deceitful  liason  clinging  to  you?  I  could  never 
have  believed  it  possible,  that  the  man  I  loved  could  have 
fallen  so  low — could  have  become  so  debased  or  put  me  in 
the  position  to  be  insulted  and  wronged  beyond  the  power  of 
telling." 

"Do  not  say  the  man  you  loved;  hear  me,  listen  to  me 
until  I  tell  you  all.  By  your  love  you  shall  judge  me.  Love 
like  yours  cannot  die  in  a  moment.  I  followed  you  here  as 
soon  as  I  learned  at  the  station  that  you  had  left  on  that 
morning  after" — he  paused  and  went  on:  "I  would  not  see 
or  talk  to  you  until  you  were  better,  and  now  if  you  will  only 


246  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

hear  me,  surely  you  will  forgive.  I  am  weak  and  have  sinned 
against  you,  but  it  was  not  intentional.  When  you  did  not 
care  to  go  out  before  your  child  was  born — now  be  quiet. 
Do  not  sob  so  bitterly,"  he  said.  For  at  the  mention  of  the 
dead  baby  he  had,  I  noticed,  said  "your  child,"  not  ours. 

"Now,  hear  me  patiently  as  possible.  I  used  to  go  out 
alone  as  you  know,  and  one  day  met  Alice  at  the  house  of 
a  friend.  She  was  just  out  of  school  and  very  unhappy  in 
the  home  of  her  adopted  parents.  She  had  no  friends  and 
the  old  people  were  very  stern.  I  will  not  weary  you.  She 
rode  or  walked  every  day.  Their  home  was  across  the  bay 
near  the  foot  of  Mount  Tamalpais — if  you  remember  1  was 
there  for  a  few  days.  They  were  to  send  her  to  Europe  and 
one  day  in  San  Francisco  I  saw  her.  She  had  escaped  the 
vigilance  of  her  companion,  a  woman  she  detested.  I  will 
not  harrow  your  feelings,  but  I  was  tempted  and  fell.  And 
when  the  truth  as  you  know  it  became  evident,  and  she,  wild 
and  terrified  as  to  the  future,  pleaded  with  me  to  assist  her 
in  keeping  the  secret  of  her  life  from  the  public,  I  was  as 
terrified  as  she.  I  went  to  you — you  know  the  rest.  I  was 
obliged  to  keep  up  the  farce  and  pretended  to  love  her  until 
I  could  get  her  away.  You  overheard  me,  I  suppose,  but  I 
come  to  you  asking  you  to  forgive  me  and  love  me  a  little. 
It  was  her  idea  to  tell  you  of  the  supposed  relationship,  and 
that  the  child  should  be  born  in  our  home,  so  that  1  could 
eventually  adopt  it.  And  now,  while  she  is  heartbroken  at 
the  idea  of  leaving,  she  will  go  away.  This  she  had  been 
talking  of — you  probably  did  not  hear  all,  and  that  was  a 
farewell  that  you  witnessed.  I  promised  anything  to  pacify 
her.  She  will  go  where  you  will  never  see  her  if  you  will 
agree  to  adopt  the  boy." 

"And  she  is  heartless  enough  to  give  up  the  child  and 
you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  have  so  agreed  if  you  will  come  back 
with  me.  Perhaps  in  time  you  may  forgive  me  and  forget 
all  except  the  child  is  mine  and  learn  to  love  him." 

For  hours  he  talked  and  pleaded  with  me;  all  the  old  time 
love  seemed  mine  once  more.  He  was  so  penitent,  tender 
and  loving.  He  said  that  when  I  was  well  enough  if  I  would 


FROM   THE   WORLD  247 

only  return  with  him — for  he  would  not  go  back  without  me 
— we  would  dismiss  the  servants  and  go  away  for  a  time  by 
ourselves,  and  Alice  would  sail  for  the  Orient. 

I  cannot  tell  you  all  that  followed,  only  that  he  conquered 
me  completely.  For,  try  as  I  would,  struggle  as  I  did, 
against  my  better  judgment  I  agreed  to  his  wishes,  for  I  loved 
him,  God  help  me !  knowing  all,  yet  forgiving  all. 

We  had  a  few  quiet  days,  happy  days  when  it  seemed  to 
me  that  life  might  be  worth  while,  when  the  past  could  be 
lived  down,  if  not  forgotten.  And  my  heart  went  out  con 
stantly  to  the  poor  child  whose  mother  was  so  willing  to  leave 
it.  I  longed  to  hold  it  in  my  arms  and  see  the  child  that 
would  soon  be  motherless.  So  one  day  Bert  asked  me  if  I  was 
strong  enough  to  travel.  When  I  hesitated  he  said,  "You 
need  not  see  her,  but  go  with  me ;  then  the  arrangements  can 
be  quickly  and  satisfactorily  made." 

So,  between  hope  and  fear  the  journey  was  made.  We 
arrived  late  in  the  evening  and  went  at  once  to  our  rooms. 
He  kissed  me  and  said,  "Rest  well  tonight,  and  all  will  be 
arranged  for  us  tomorrow." 

1  was  restless  and  could  not  sleep,  but  would  not  open 
Bert's  door  to  disturb  him.  The  thought  of  the  horrors  of 
that  last  night  spent  here  was  tugging  at  my  throat,  choking 
me,  and  my  heart  was  beating  so  wildly  that  it  made  me 
afraid. 

Once  in  the  night  I  heard  the  dismal  yelp  of  a  coyote — 
and  a  faint,  feeble  wail  nearer,  came  from  the  nursery.  The 
little  boy — his  boy !  was  crying.  My  heart  warmed  at  the 
thought  of  the  little  helpless  being,  and  I  thought  very  soon 
I  would  console  and  soothe  it  with  tenderest  care. 

Toward  dawn  I  fell  asleep  and  wakening  with  a  start  I 
dressed  hurriedly.  The  breakfast  bell  rang  before  I  left  my 
room.  Hastening  down  I  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
was  almost  paralyzed  to  see  Alice  sitting  in  my  place  pouring 
out  the  coffee  for  my  husband. 

"I  thought  the  air  was  not  good  for  your  health,  and  that 
you  had  gone  back  to  San  Francisco  for  a  more  even  climate. 
It  is  pleasant  to  know  you  have  changed  your  mind  and  are 
back  again,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  insinuating  voice. 


248  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  turned  to  Bert.  "Sit  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  seat 
at  the  side  of  the  table.  "Alice  will  keep  the  seat  she  has  in 
the  future." 

"And  so  it  was  for  this — to  doubly  insult  me  that  you 
brought  me  here?"  I  said. 

"It  was  to  straighten  out  some  complications  which  we 
will  discuss  after  breakfast,"  he  replied.  "So  be  kind  enough 
to  eat  and  do  not  make  a  scene  before  the  servants." 

I  turned  and  went  out,  so  blinded  by  pain  and  misery  that 
I  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go.  Only  one  idea 
was  in  my  mind,  and  that  for  some  reason  I  had  been 
inveigled  into  coming  back.  I  felt  I  must  have  time  to  think. 
Solitude  was  my  wish.  I  must  get  away.  I  went  on  until 
I  found  myself  upon  a  crag  overhanging  the  bay.  Tortured 
by  fears  and  with  the  thought  of  that  woman  sitting  in  my 
place,  with  the  query  that  insulted  my  womanhood,  my  right 
to  be  in  my  own  home,  for  it  was  mine  and  not  my  husband's; 
yet  he  evidently  sanctioned  the  insult;  lost  in  my  own  miser 
able  thoughts,  I  was  brought  to  myself  by  Bert's  voice. 

"I  have  come  to  find  you  and  have  a  full  and  complete 
understanding,  Ruth." 

"It  is  time,  I  think,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  it  is  time,  and  the  time  is  now.  I  will  speak  freely 
to  you.  I  thought  I  loved  you,  Ruth,  when  I  married  you. 
I  had  never  cared  for  another  until  I  met  you,  and  so  was 
happy  with  you  until  I  met  Alice.  Then  indeed  I  knew  what 
love  was!  I  know  now  it  is  my  very  life.  I  love  her  as  no 
man  ever  loved  woman  before,  and,  loving  her  as  1  do,  noth 
ing  in  heaven  or  on  earth  can  separate  us  but  death." 

"You  forget  to  mention  one  place,"  I  said.  "Hell  would 
be  more  in  your  line  and  hers  also,  I  fancy.  And  let  me 
say  to  you,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  just  God  in  heaven,  and  I 
know  there  is — one  who  looks  with  pitying  love  upon  the 
helpless  and  the  wronged — just  so  sure  as  you  live  and  she 
lives,  there  will  be  more  of  hell  than  heaven  on  earth  for  you 
two.  All  that  you  have  made  me  suffer  will  return  to  you  in 
some  way." 

"We  will  not  discuss  that  now.  What  I  want  to  say  is 
this.  You  received  me  in  the  city — you  lived  with  me  as  your 


FROM   THE   WORLD  249 

lawful  husband.  You  condoned  my  offense — therefore  you 
are  in  no  position  to  dictate.  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are 
to  do.  Nearly  all  your  property  is  mine  by  marriage.  You 
cannot  get  a  divorce  for  you  have  condoned  my  offense.  Alice 
wants  to  go  away  and  will  not  take  the  child.  If  you  will 
keep  it  and  care  for  it,  I  shall  make  ample  allowance  for  you 
and  the  boy.  You  can  go  where  you  like,  and  do  what  you 
please.  Only  you  are  not  to  trouble  me.  As  to  my  future 
life,  I  shall  take  care  that  you  will  not  have  an  opportunity 
to  trouble  me  further.  Alice  and  I  leave  on  different  trains 
today.  You  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you  like  or  go  where 
you  choose — this  house  is  at  your  disposal,  and  there  will  be 
money  at  the  bank  for  you." 

"You  are  kind,"  1  said,  "to  offer  money  of  my  own  to 
me,  but  I  have  money,  thank  heaven,  you  know  nothing 
about.  I  will  make  a  gift  to  you — you  can  live  on  the  money 
you  obtained  when  you  married  me — I  will  accept  nothing 
from  you." 

"As  you  choose,"  he  said.  "But  we  waste  time.  I  am 
going  to  see  Alice  off  by  the  first  train  and  will  see  you 
again." 

So  he  left  me  there  with  the  great  gray  waste  of  waters 
stretching  on  and  on  to  infinity.  I  tried  to  imagine  what 
life  would  be  without  him.  If  he  were  dead,  then  1  might 
mourn  for  him,  might  hope  for  a  reunion  beyond  this  li 
But  to  live  on  in  the  same  world,  knowing  that  another 
woman  had  his  heart,  the  one  with  the  fair  baby  face,  but 
cruel  as  the  grave.  And  though  he  loved  her,  somehow,  I 
could  not  believe  he  had  her  heart.  There  was  something 
my  woman's  intuition  discovered.  Beneath  the  fair  exterior 
was  a  false  and  unstable  nature.  Else  why  could  she  leave 
the  helpless  child  whose  father  adored  her. 

The  future  was  not  to  be  thought  of  now.  The  present 
in  all  its  dreadful  reality  must  be  faced.  I  could  not  throw 
myself  into  the  seething  waters  below  me  and  end  it  all,  for 
I  could  not  be  sure  that  it  would  end  all  for  me. 

What  if  it  were  as  some  teach  that  nothing  can  die  or 
cease  to  exist — that  new  forms  and  new  life  spring  cease 
lessly  from  the  decay  which  we  with  our  earthly  senses  per- 


250  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ceive, — that  all  humanity,  in  fact  everything,  lives  again 
and  yet  again  in  some  shape  or  other.  If  so,  why  not  try 
to  endure  it  here,  and  make  the  best  of  the  poor  broken  life 
possible.  If  our  thoughts  and  actions  do  not  end  on  the  earth 
plane,  but  in  that  otherwhere  to  which  we  must  go,  we  will 
find  ineffaceable  records,  it  surely  were  worth  while  to  try  to 
do  what  is  right  according  to  one's  understanding.  If  by 
being  true  to  myself  and  my  early  teachings  I  could  raise 
myself  in  the  scale  and  not  lower  myself  as  I  would  if  I  had — 
as  1  thought  to  do  in  my  frenzy  that  terrible  night  and  com 
mitted  murder  and  shut  the  gates  of  heaven  from  me  for 
ever. 

Again  the  words  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"  seemed  to  be  ring 
ing  in  my  brain — then  it  must  mean  neither  myself  or  another. 
I  must  bear  my  sorrows  as  best  I  could,  bereft  of  life's  best 
gift — hope.  For  I  knew  in  all  its  intensity  and  fervor  that 
I  who  had  been  a  wife  and  mother  had  lost  all  the  hopes, 
the  dreams  of  life,  of  youth,  of  love,  that  make  earth  seem 
so  like  heaven. 

So  my  thoughts  ran  on  and  on  until  I  knew  no  more,  and  it 
was  weeks  before  I  became  conscious  of  what  was  going  on 
around  me.  Gradually  as  I  became  better  I  learned  that 
Bert  had  left  on  the  afternoon  when  they  found  me  later, 
unconscious  on  the  beach.  No  word  had  come  from  him 
since  that  day. 

But  the  baby  had  grown  wonderfully  in  the  few  weeks, 
and  one  day  they  brought  him  to  me.  His  father's  boy,  in 
deed  !  Surely  there  was  never  so  great  a  resemblance  between 
a  man  and  a  tiny  mite  of  humanity  as  I  saw  in  him. 
I  took  him  in  my  arms,  saw  his  face  dimple  with  laughter 
while  his  tiny  hands  grasped  my  hair  which  hung  loosely 
about  my  face.  My  heart  seemed  to  expand  in  sudden  joy. 
I  kissed  and  cried  over  him,  so  like  the  Bert  1  knew,  and  in 
that  moment  I  knew  also,  God  help  me !  that  I  not  only 
loved  his  child,  but  that  with  all  the  misery  he  had  heaped 
upon  me,  the  humiliation,  treachery,  deceit,  and  indifference, 
that  in  my  soul  I  still  loved  him !  RUTH. 


XXVII 


"With   me    in    my   untraversed   wilds    and    caves, 
My  kingdom  unexplored,  you  will  read  the  book 
Of  Nature  that  unclasp'd  lies,  while  the  winds 
Mesmeric  as  the  fingers  of  your  love 
Will  turn  the  living  leaves  as  you  read  on." 

It  has  been  said  that  Mexico  is  superior  to  Italy  in  land 
scape  effects,  which  is  certainly  true,  Jack.  This  country 
is  so  large  and  so  diversified  that  it  can  scarcely  be  compared 
to  Italy.  The  immensity  of  it,  the  deserts  and  mesas,  the 
high  mountains  that,  even  in  the  tropics,  are  covered  with 
perpetual  snow,  the  plateaus  and  tierra  caliente  or  hot  lands 
give  inexhaustible  subjects  for  the  writer  or  artist. 

I  could  fill  pages  in  describing  the  country  from  the  Mitla 
region  back  to  Puebla  and  on  to  Jalapa.  Its  products,  mode 
of  tilling  the 
soil,  the  scenery 

that  charms    Ifi^MB  *„  *' ^1 

with  its  kalei 
doscopic  effects, 
from  the  tierra 
caliente  to  the 
higher  table- 
lands,  are  var 
ied  and  won 
derfully  inter 
esting.  There 
are  landscapes 
as  lovely  and 
beautiful  as  are 
to  be  found 
anywhere  1  n  A  GROUP  OF  NATIVES  OF  MITLA. 

the  world  and 

the  small  but  picturesque  towns  are  pleasing,  for  something 
more  than  a  saloon  and  a  cigar  stand  is  needed  to  constitute 

251 


252  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

a  town  in  Mexico.  No  matter  how  small  the  place,  one 
sees  a  church  and  a  plaza.  A  man  remarked  to  me:  "We 
are  never  out  of  sight  of  a  church  in  Mexico."  He  seemed 
rather  disgusted  with  the  number  of  churches  seen. 

"And  you  are  never  out  of  reach  of  a  saloon  at  home,"  I 
replied.  He  seemed  more  used  to  the  latter  than  the  former 
I  thought. 

And  then  the  man  turned  away  with  a  withering  have- 
the-last-word  look  and  we  both  quietly  heard  the  "wheels 
go  'round"  as  we  sped  along. 

From  Puebla  we  journeyed  to  Jalapa.  And  by  the  way, 
Jack,  if  you  know  the  medicine  called  jalap  and  with  no 
pleasing  or  tender  memories,  and  call  the  town  Halapa, 
which  is  correct,  it  will  probably  seem  different  and  more 
enjoyable. 

We  passed  on  the  way  a  fine  agricultural  country,  and  I 
saw  for  the  first  time  some  American  cultivators  used  on  the 
extensive  farms,  the  magnitude  of  which  would  astonish 
some  of  our  large  land  owners,  unless  they  are  aware  of  the 
fact  that  lands  are  not  taxed  in  Mexico.  In  our  sister  Re 
public  a  man  may  have  vast  possessions  and  be  at  no  expense, 
if  he  does  not  cultivate  his  acres.  But  if  he  is  unfortunate 
enough  to  work  for  a  salary,  the  Government  insists  on  its 
right  to  a  portion  of  it. 

This  was  the  best  agricultural  country  I  had  seen,  except 
in  the  Guadalajara  division.  There  were  vast  wheat  fields 
and  the  harvest  of  corn  was  abundant.  Men  in  squads  of 
eight  or  more,  with  great  baskets  on  their  backs,  picked  the 
ears  and  tossed  them  deftly  over  their  heads  into  the  baskets. 
An  overseer  on  horseback  was  always  in  attendance,  watching 
them  work.  It  reminded  me  of  stories  of  the  old  days  of 
slavery. 

Labor-saving  machines  are  not  much  in  evidence,  and  I 
wondered  how  a  combined  harvester  and  threshing  machine 
would  strike  these  people.  The  hardest  and  most  laborious 
way  seems  the  most  favored.  The  same  impression  applies 
to  a  good  many  things  throughout  the  country.  I  have 
found  traveling  in  Mexico  harder  than  in  any  country  1  have 
ever  visited.  The  venders  of  enchiladas,  tortillas,  tamales 


FROM   THE   WORLD  253 

and  the  inevitable  jugs  of  pulque  are  found  at  every  station. 
All  these  are  bought  and  eaten  in  the  cars.  That  one  slips 
on  sticky  tamale  husks,  banana  and  orange  peelings  is  of 
small  concern  to  the  feeders,  who  seem  to  be  always  eating 
while  traveling  and  is  only  a  trifle  of  what  one  encounters 
in  the  way  of  odors  while  traveling. 

Still  I  did  not  allow  these  things  to  disturb  or  distract  my 
attention  from  the  broad  mesas  or  the  grandly  picturesque 
beauty  of  the  mountains.  I  believe  in  adapting  myself  to 
circumstances.  I  was  traveling  in  a  land — if  not  "God's 
own  country" — some  portions  of  which  are  so  near  the 
threshold  of  Eden  that  minor  affairs  were  nothing. 

The  natives  ate  when  they  could  get  anything  to  eat.  And 
a  green  leaf  held  the  tempting  enchilada  as  well  as  a  costly 
Sevres  plate,  and  was  always  within  reach  of  the  dealer. 
They  seemed  to  enjoy  the  delicacies,  though  I  often  went 
hungry.  Enchiladas  were  not  to  be  thought  of,  and  the 
fruits  were  not  always  to  my  liking. 

Some  wretch  suggested  Welsh  rarebit.  Good  cheese  and 
real  butter,  with  a  few  necessary  concomitants  thrown  in 
would  be  acceptable  I  thought.  I  was  not  materially  inter 
ested  in  the  nationality  of  the  sauce  or  rarebit,  but  wished 
for  one  that  would  taste  as  if  I  had  made  it  myself — pure 
and  simple,  without  sex,  politics,  or  genealogical  tree — well, 
there  was  something  to  live  for,  and  look  forward  to,  beyond 
the  Tropic  of  Cancer  and  the  Rio  Grande. 

We  skimmed  along  over  the  cultivated  lands,  and  entered 
a  mountainous  region.  A  torn  and  rugged  old  world  greeted 
me.  There  were  rocky  steeps,  black  lava  beds,  and  wind 
swept  trees. 

We  passed  a  forlorn  old  castle  that  was  a  fortress  for  the 
Spaniards,  and  a  place  of  rest  after  the  long  toilsome  climb 
up  these  mountains,  over  the  road  from  Puebla  to  Vera 
Cruz.  In  this  section  the  bandits  once  held  sway  and  terror 
ized  the  country. 

Then  we  entered  a  region  where  the  fog  holds  everything 
in  its  moist  embrace  and  found  it  was  equal  to  some  of  Mount 
Tamalpais'  show  days.  As  we  passed  the  fog  belt,  a  cold 
wind  drove  the  mist  in  foamy  masses  through  the  trees, 


254  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

festooned  with  long  gray  mosses,  waving  ghost-like,  as  we 
sped  through  narrow  cuts  and  curved  around  projecting 
stone  abutments.  A  tossed  and  tumbled  sea  of  mist  filled 
the  canons  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  train  was  shooting 
straight  out  over  those  filmy  depths  that  hid  the  world 
below.  But  the  road  was  as  substantial  as  the  scenery  was 
unreal. 

Soon  we  left  the  fogs  and  the  sun  came  out  clear  and  bright 
as  we  neared  Jalapa,  showing  in  the  clear  light  wonderful 
vistas  of  plain  and  mountains.  Glimpses  of  mirage-haunted 
distances  were  had  through  the  tangled  growth  of  wood. 
Far  below  was  an  undulating  country  with  the  shimmering 
green  fields  of  sugar-cane.  Rivers  and  lakes  gleamed  through 
a  whitish  mist.  Great  red  flowers  flashed  a  bright  welcome 
amid  the  wealth  of  verdure,  for  we  were  once  more  in  the 
heart  of  the  tropics. 

Vines  with  wine-tinted  flowers  fluttered  in  the  winds  like 
vivid  butterflies.  A  bit  of  an  old  tumbled-down,  broken  wall, 
a  ruined  temple  high  above  some  trees,  completed  a  picture 
that  memory  will  ever  hold  dear.  And  then  I  found  myself 
in  quaint  Jalapa. 

A  street  car,  which  runs  semi-annually,  or  semi-daily,  was 
not  in  evidence  when  I  left  the  train,  but  a  peon  took  my 
small  belongings  and  we  started  for  the  hotel,  which  was 
nearly  a  mile  away.  There  were  no  conveyances  of  any 
kind  for  the  traveler,  so  Jalapa  is  no  place  for  gouty  or 
rheumatic  people.  Being  by  nature  rather  averse  to  carrying 
my  own,  or  the  burdens  of  other  people,  I  gladly  shifted  the 
responsibility  of  mine  and  let  the  brown  man  attend  to  the 
transportation.  Thus  we  went  through  the  tortuous  streets, 
whose  paving  seemed  to  have  been  left  in  an  unrestored  con 
dition  since  the  invasion. 

it  is,  however,  worth  all  the  aches  and  pains  one  endures 
in  walking  the  rough  streets,  for  in  many  places,  sidewalks 
are  unknown,  as  I  found  later  on  in  wandering  through  the 
old  town. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  street  car  line  one  seems  to  belong 
to  centuries  past.  The  twentieth  century  is  forgotten,  and 
one  is  transported  to  the  sixteenth  century.  The  iron-barred 


FROM   THE   WORLD  255 

windows,  old  gray  walls  that  shut  in  many  a  charming  home, 
red-tiled  roofs  with  queer  water  spouts  projecting  over  the 
narrow  walk  gave  me  a  glimpse  of  other  days  and  other 
ways  than  ours. 

One  might  wander  far  over  the  world  and  not  find  a 
fairer  place  than  Jalapa,  with  its  architectural  traces  of  the 
Castilian,  the  quaintly  odd  projecting  balconies,  attractive 
with  bright  draperies,  and  doubly  so  when  one  catches  a 
glimpse  now  and  then  of  some  beautiful  senorita  peering 
through  the  curtains. 

Pictures  of  old  Castilian  days  haunted  my  mind.  Away 
from  the  "Limited,"  with  none  of  the  stop-over  privileges 
of  our  country,  imagination,  however,  has  privileges  in  this 
tropical  region,  where  cloistered  nooks  and  still  nights  drug 
the  senses  into  a  forgetfulness  of  the  seething,  jostling  world, 
where  lives  are  thrown  away  in  the  restless  tumult  and  flying 
spume  of  an  existence,  that  is  lived  so  rapidly  that  few  men 
get  acquainted  with  themselves. 

Not  so  do  the  people  live  down  here  in  the  tropics.  They 
live  lives  vibrant  with  human  passion,  if  not  the  hurried  and 
vigorous  life  of  the  colder  regions.  The  days  are  not  so 
filled  with  toil  that  the  nights  do  not  play  an  important  part 
in  the  lives  of  the  men  here.  The  bandits  of  other  days  are 
gone,  but  the  barred  windows  are  staunch  and  firm  and  here 
in  the  entrancing,  fragrant  evenings,  the  lover  stands  outside 
and  pleads  his  cause  in  soft,  low  music,  or  patiently  waits  for 
a  glance  at  the  fair  one  behind  the  curtains,  for  the  women 
of  the  better  class  are  given  but  little  freedom,  and  so  the 
lover  serenely  paces  back  and  forth  under  the  senorita's 
balcony,  content  with  a  word  or  a  glance. 

There  are  no  hours  spent  with  the  adored  one,  wandering 
along  lanes  and  amid  scenes  of  tropical  bloom  and  fragrance, 
where  the  very  atmosphere  breathes  of  love  and  its  sweetness. 
Amid  this  mystery  of  color  and  ravishing  beauty,  one  feels 
that  a  bit  of  Paradise,  of  bloom,  tranquility  and  radiance  has 
escaped,  and  found  a  resting  place  upon  the  eastern  slope  of 
Meniltepec. 

The  mists  that  usually  hover  over  the  place  were  dispelled 
by  the  warm  sunlight,  which  overspread  the  whole  scene  like 


256 


UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 


a  sea  of  blessing.  I  absorbed  it,  and  with  an  inertia  of  peace 
I  was  soothed  and  rested.  The  senses  were  filled  with  rap 
ture.  A  great  inflorescence  of  beauty  that  was  purifying  and 
uplifting  was  mine,  for  here  where  nature  has  been  more 
than  bountiful,  her  blessings  must  if  they  sink  into  the  appre 
ciative  soul  be  a  prayer  and  a  benediction. 

The  natives  seem  a  docile  people,  living  close  to  nature, 
and  appear  to  live  unquestioning  amid  their  poverty.  Cling 
ing  to  the  warm,  kindly  earth,  they  eat  of  her  gifts  and  live 


GROUP    OF    WOMEN    WASHING. 


without  much  wear  and  tear  of  brains  or  a  knowledge  of  the 
"strenuous  life" — the  phrase  so  dearly  liked  in  our  tele 
phonic,  telegraphic  existence. 

Here  where  climatic  conditions  produce  perennial  fruits 
and  flowers,  they  have  but  little  heed  of  the  morrow.  If  the 
peon  has  his  daily  tortillas  and  the  fruits  he  may  have  for 
the  labor  of  gathering  in  so  many  places  in  the  country,  he 
will  not  quarrel  with  fate  nor  have  nervous  prostration  in 
trying  to  keep  pace  with  some  other  fellow  who  may  wear  a 
better  sombrero  or  scrape.  He  does  not  lie  awake  nights 


FROM   THE   WORLD  257 

thinking  how  he  can  earn  another  peso  to  buy  a  new  dress 
or  the  latest  in  hats  for  his  females. 

They  live  close  to  nature — and  also  where  nature  shows 
her  best  and  loveliest,  yet  I  do  not  know  that  instinct  finds 
the  loftiest  expression  among  these  people.  The  beauty  that 
exists  in  the  soul  of  things,  as  some  people  have  it,  may  be 
appreciated.  They  perhaps  have  a  subtle  sense  of  the  beau 
tiful;  but  knowing  nothing  beyond  their  environments,  they 
cannot  know  or  enjoy  by  contrast  and  are  not  thankful  for 
the  climate,  which  if  it  were  negotiable,  would  be  one  of  the 
unfailing  resources  of  their  land. 

Aside  from  the  unparalleled  views  one  has  from  the  beau 
tiful  plaza  in  Jalapa,  the  old  town  was  full  of  interest  to  me. 
It  was  old  before  the  conquests,  and  much  of  the  mediaeval 
style  still  clings  to  it,  though  the  schools  and  colleges  are  of 
the  best,  and  English  is  taught  in  the  colleges,  showing  their 
appreciation  of  the  value  of  the  language,  commercially  if 
not  otherwise. 

I  fully  appreciated  the  uses  and  abuses  that  might  befall 
one  where  ignorance  is  not  bliss,  for  I  escaped  more  by  good 
luck  than  sense.  The  Bible  says,  "Let  him  that  stole,  steal" 
and  all  unwittingly  I  stole,  and  after  the  transaction  finished 
the  sentence — "no  more."  It  was  my  first  offense,  ignorantly 
or  otherwise,  and  I  resolved  that  I  would  be  more  careful 
and  that  no  more  blunders  were  to  be  made  in  Mexico. 

I  entered  a  ticket  office  one  day  to  inquire  in  my  limited 
patois  about  a  trip  to  a  certain  place,  and  while  endeavoring 
to  obtain  information,  found  I  was  in  the  wrong  place.  It 
was  the  freight  department  I  knew  later.  Not  being  able  to 
get  what  I  went  for,  I  gathered  up  some  sheets  of  brown 
paper,  wrapped  them  around  a  small  parcel,  bowed  to  the 
"agente,"  and  walked  out.  Just  before  the  train  started,  I 
glanced  idly  at  my  parcel,  and  was  horrified  to  find  I  had 
taken  some  of  the  way  bills.  "Ferrocarril  de  Jalapa  a  Cor 
doba,"  then  "recibo,"  and  "conseguatario" — that  was  all 
plain  enough  to  me,  beside  a  lot  of  unintelligible  stuff.  Then 
"estacion,  kilogramos,"  etc.,  were  easily  deciphered,  and  I 
knew  that  I  had  taken  the  way  bills  by  mistake.  I  did  not 
want  them — but  knew  not  what  to  do.  It  was  impossible 


258  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

for  me  to  explain.  My  knowledge  of  the  language  was  lim 
ited.  I  did  not  know  it  well  enough  to  confess.  Besides,  a 
vision  of  some  of  the  prisons  I  had  seen  made  me  think  they 
were  not  the  most  desirable  places  for  rest  and  repose. 

Only  that  morning  I  had  seen  a  lot  of  prisoners  escorted 
to  their  daily  toil  by  the  armed  rurales.  One  poor  fellow 
had  but  one  leg,  and  went  along  with  a  piece  of  wood  tied 
to  the  other  knee,  beating  an  accompaniment  to  the  "ssh-ssh" 
of  the  sandals  and  bare  feet  of  the  others.  If  he  were  not 
exempt,  howr  could  I,  in  reasonable  health  and  looking  it, 
hope  to  escape  were  it  known  that  I  had  stolen — and  of 
course  they  would  have  so  decided  it — the  way  bills?  The 
wandering  Californian  felt  just  then  a  yearning  to  be  a  hom 
ing  pigeon,  but,  not  being  able  to  fly,  the  longing  for  home 
brought  the  desire  to  get  out  of  the  scrape.  So  I  decided 
to  keep  quiet  and  say  nothing,  especially  as  I  could  not  well 
do  otherwise.  But  being  guilty,  I  must  needs  return  to  the 
vicinity  of  the  freight  office. 

I  strolled  leisurely  back,  and  looking  into  the  office,  saw 
three  men  searching  with  nervous  energy  for  something.  A 
cold  wave  of  fear  enveloped  me  as  the  "agente"  looked  me 
square  in  the  eyes.  I  returned  the  glance  with  greater  inter 
est  than  he  knew,  smiled  or  grinned — I  know  not  which — 
bowed  politely,  and  turning  saw  a  policeman,  who  looked 
about  ten  feet  high,  standing  by  my  side.  The  welcome 
word  "Vamonos"  was  shrilled  in  my  ears  by  the  conductor 
and  I,  in  plain  English,  found  myself  "all  aboard,"  in  the 
cars  and  speeding  away  from  the  place,  happy  because  I  had 
escaped  a  padlocked  cell,  yet  miserable  in  possessing  some 
thing  I  did  not  want,  yet  dared  not  return,  for  I  was  afraid 
of  the  consequences. 

I  met  a  gentleman  while  in  the  City  of  Mexico  who  was 
kept  in  prison  four  months  through  the  influence  of  a  certain 
official,  who  had  this  man  imprisoned  simply  because  the 
aforesaid  official  wanted  a  mine  that  had  been  in  possession 
of  the  prisoner's  family  for  eighty  years. 

The  gentleman  had  been  victorious,  but  it  made  me  shud 
der  when  I  knew  that  for  no  particular  reason  he  had  been 
deprived  of  his  liberty  for  months.  So  considering  that  the 


FROM   THE   WORLD  259 

motive  is  the  sin,  I  looked  with  an  unbiased  opinion  upon  the 
matter,  judging  myself  not  guilty,  and  am  ready  to  return 
the  souvenir  way  bills  at  a  moment's  notice  when  extradition 
papers  are  sent. 

I  must  speak  of  the  incomparable  beauty  of  a  trip  to 
Coatepec  and  Teoceli,  on  a  branch  road  that  runs  from 
Jalapa  through  superb  scenery  in  the  heart  of  tropical  Mex 
ico.  Coatepec  lies  at  the  base  of  Orizaba,  embowered  in  a 
wealth  of  beautiful  verdure,  while  reaching  far  above  in  the 
blue  sky  is  the  peak  forever  white  with  glistening  snow. 

The  place  is  beautiful  and  the  luxuriance  of  the  coffee, 
sugar,  banana  and  pineapple  plantations  sent  me  into  rap 
tures.  The  quivering  and  shimmering  heat  waves  over  the 
vast  illimitable  stretches  of  field  and  hill,  extending  on  and 
on  until  the  imagination  expanded  and  reveled  in  the  infinite 
that  was  lost  to  the  vision  beyond  the  horizon's  rim. 

An  adequate  description  is  impossible  of  a  scene  that  pos 
sessed  a  charm  not  easily  explained  in  the  magnificent  land 
scape  effects  that  lay  around  me.  And  over  all,  as  Words 
worth  saw  and  wrote  of  a  picture  was  "The  light  that  never 
was  on  sea  or  land." 

From  Teoceli  I  drove  to  a  barranca  where  were  some 
magnificent  waterfalls  that  were  utilized  for  an  electric  plant 
which  supplied  three  cities  (Jalapa  one  of  them)  with  light. 
Great  tree  ferns  and  vines  made  the  place  beautiful.  1  went 
down  a  series  of  ladders  or  wooden  steps  four  hundred  in 
number,  to  the  plant,  which  was  operated  by  an  American 
and  owned  by  Americans.  It  will  not  be  many  years  before 
the  United  States  will  be  in  evidence  nearly  everywhere  in 
Mexico.  The  opportunities  are  great,  and  capital  is  not  slow 
in  realizing  the  fact. 

Jalapa,  though  small,  is  a  well-lighted  city.  And  think 
ing  of  the  well-lighted  streets,  my  mind  reverted  to  Puebla 
and  Oaxaca,  whose  streets  are  as  black  as  tunnels.  A  tiny 
point  of  light  set  in  the  middle  of  the  streets,  one  for  every 
block,  gives  all  the  illumination  the  streets  have,  and  the 
initiated  know  that  each  light  represents  a  lantern  and  a 
policeman  in  the  vicinity.  If  a  policeman  deserts  his  post  or 
is  caught  napping  by  someone,  his  lantern  is  stolen  and  he 


260 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


is  dismissed  without  further  evidence.  There  is  one  com 
fort,  however,  in  the  system;  the  scarcity  of  light  is  made 
up  by  the  one  cheering  fact  that  you  know  just  where  a 
policeman  is  when  you  want  one. 

A  day  was  spent  in  visiting  the  barranca  where  the  water 
of  the  falls  leaps  from  a  great  height  down  into  the  depths 
below.  The  flumes  which  diverted  the  water  to  a  useful 
purpose  in  no  wise  destroyed  the  beauty  of  the  falls.  The 
spell  which  the  place  cast  upon  me  made  it  hard  for  me  to 
leave.  The  machinery  of  that  electric  plant  lying  deep  in 
the  ravine  seemed  wholly  out  of  place  in  this  old  land  of 


BARRANCA    AT   TEOCELI,    NEAR   JALAPA. 

the  Montezumas,  where  broken  temples  give  evidence  of 
ages  gone  by,  of  altars  that  smoked  with  sacrificial  offerings, 
perchance  at  the  time  when  Solomon  was  planning  the 
foundation  of  the  temple  at  Jerusalem. 

Here  the  tribes  saw  the  sacred  fires,  even  as  the  children 
of  Israel,  when  led  by  Moses  the  Meek,  saw  and  followed 
the  pillar  of  fire.  Those  who  built  Egypt's  towering  pyra 
mids  and  fashioned  the  sad-eyed  Sphinx  which  faces  the 
desert  wastes,  might  not  have  made  eyes  so  filled  with  un 
utterable  sadness  could  the  builders  and  makers  have  looked 


FROM   THE   WORLD  261 

upon   this  beautiful  land,   a  land  that  is  bright  and  more 
beautiful  than  the  long-sought-for  Canaan. 

The  sound  of  falling  waters,  the  tropical  growth,  unsur 
passed  by  any  I  have  ever  seen,  is  here,  and  never-ending 
vistas  show  like  enchanted  land  through  aisles  of  trees  whose 
branches  are  wreathed  and  entwined  with  festoons  of  vines. 
A  sense  of  humility  overpowered  me  as  I  gazed  upon  the 
great  sweep  of  landscape  that  reared  and  stretched  giant 
peaks  skyward,  while  above  all  in  majesty  and  towering 
strength,  was  Orizaba,  seeming  to  support  the  vaulted  dome 
of  the  Empyrean. 

Tropical  trees,  plains  checkered  by  plantations  of  sugar 
cane,  shine  in  the  gorgeous  mantle  of  tropical  hues  impossi 
ble  to  describe.  Moss  sways  from  limbs  of  the  trees  and 
thousands  of  bright  orchids  gleam  amid  the  tangle  of  vines, 
and  tropical  luxuriance.  A  new  world  of  trees  and  flowers 
to  me,  even  with  all  our  wealth  of  vegetation  and  bloom  at 
home.  Mingled  light  and  shadows  print  mosaics  beneath 
the  boughs  of  the  coffee  groves  and  strange  odorous  woods. 
There  are  trees  and  blossoms  of  unimaginable  fragrance  that 
come  to  me  with  the  summer  odors,  gorgeous  in  tropical  lux 
uriance  that  revels  through  endless  days  and  nights  of  eternal 
summer.  The  tropic  of  my  dreams,  dear  friend,  has  opened 
its  gates  which  have  swung  back  on  noiseless  hinges,  and 
the  reality  is  more  satisfying,  more  enchanting  than  dreams 
could  picture.  And  now  I  am  strolling  through  groves  and 
over  very  real  paths,  amid  the  splendors  of  a  tropical  foliage 
and  bloom  I  have  never  seen  elsewhere  in  all  my  wanderings. 

The  mystic  light  that  wavered  and  brooded  in  that  great 
ravine  built  and  fashioned  by  Nature  at  Orizaba's  base  cast 
its  thrall  upon  me.  I  felt  as  I  have  when  looking  through 
the  incense-laden  air  of  some  grand  old  cathedral.  Only 
the  latter  means  men's  fashioning  and  place  of  worship. 
Down  in  the  barranca  one's  whole  being  is  awed  and  humil 
iated.  The  senses  are  overwhelmed,  for  Nature  holds  sway 
and  this  is  God's  place  of  worship.  Adios. 

FRANK. 


XXVIII 

"How  could  she  know  that  in  a  man's  busy  existence  an  out-lived, 
burned-out  love  can  become  of  no  more  consequence  than  the  ashes 
of  his  pipe?" 

The  pathetic  story  of  Ruth's  heroic  struggles  to  live  and 
endure  a  sorrow  that  would  have  driven  many  women  to 
desperation  was  not  all  told  in  one  letter,  Edith  dear,  but  in 
many.  From  them  I  have  pieced  out  a  fairly  clear  idea  of 
her  humiliation  and  grief,  which  I  have  written  you  from 
time  to  time. 

She  is  desolate  and  my  impulses  are  to  help  her  all  I  can. 
I  have  wrritten  her  to  send  the  child  to  me  and  I  will  see 
that  it  is  well  cared  for.  You  know  the  house  is  large  with 
only  auntie  and  myself  besides  the  servants.  My  old  nurse 
will  take  good  care  of  it;  and  I  shall  see  that  the  truth  is  not 
known.  I  will  say  that  I  have  adopted  the  child  in  order 
to  avoid  useless  questions. 

I  will  send  a  copy  of  a  letter  I  have  written  her  advising 
her  to  go  as  far  away  as  possible  from  here.  San  Francisco 
is  too  closely  connected  with  her  sorrow  for  her  to  remain. 
She  fortunately  has  money  of  her  own  which  Bert  was  not 
aware  of.  It  is  in  Government  bonds  and  she  can  do  as  she 
wishes.  She  had  kept  it  as  a  surprise  for  him  some  day.  I 
hope  you  may  see  her  if  she  crosses  the  Atlantic.  You  would 
be  very  good  to  her,  for  I  know  your  kind  heart  better  than 
anyone  else. 

I  could  not  have  dreamed  that  so  much  of  the  coarser 
element — the  savage  that  brooks  no  opposition — lay  in  the 
nature  of  the  civilized  man.  Bert  Wilder,  handsome,  agree 
able  to  his  friends,  a  man  whom  the  world — which  judges 
from  a  business  standpoint — calls  "good,"  honorable  so  far 
as  his  dealings  with  his  fellow  men,  yet  in  a  matter  of  his 
passion  and  desires  allowed  nothing  to  swerve  him  from  his 
purpose. 

Knowing  Ruth's  terrible  experiences  and  thinking  of  the 
twofold  nature  of  the  man,  I  recall  a  conversation  we  once 


FROM   THE   WORLD  263 

had  regarding  one's  duties  in  life  toward  our  fellow  beings. 
He  said  in  reply  to  an  assertion  made  by  me  that  insincerity 
was  the  bane  of  civilization,  that  he  thought  I  was  right. 

"Hypocrisy  is  the  canker,  the  gangrene  of  the  soul.  I 
abhor  it.  Do  as  near  right  toward  people  as  you  can.  But 
it  is  better  to  be  wise  and  take  all  the  good  you  can  out  of 
life.  'Better  never  than  late'  is  a  good  motto,  so  I  try  to 
grasp  the  best  that  comes  my  way  while  1  am  able  to  appre 
ciate  and  enjoy." 

This  is  the  man  who  hated  hypocrisy.  He  took  no  chances 
on  uncertainty — it  was  the  reality,  the  certainty,  not  the  pos 
sibilities  of  life  he  sought.  And  as  the  result  proved  has 
made  a  wreck  of  one  woman's  life.  Not  for  a  noble  object 
or  purpose,  but  for  one  that  sooner  or  later  must  of  neces 
sity  not  redound  to  his  credit.  And  all  for  his  own  innate 
selfishness  and  vanity. 

Ruth  hearing  nothing  from  her  husband  has  asked  me  to 
see  him  and  learn  something  of  the  woman  who  stole  her 
husband  from  her.  Ruth  is  now  trying  to  gain  strength  in 
seclusion,  but  she  cannot  give  up  hope. 

"I  know  he  always  liked  you,  dear  Aileen,  and  perhaps 
you  can  influence  him  to  give  her  up.  He  may  yet  get  over 
his  mad  passion.  If  I  knew  it  were  for  his  good,  if 
she  could  make  a  better  man  of  him,  I  might  better  endure 
my  life  knowing  he  was  happy." 

Thus  I  wrote  in  reply:  "Friendship  costs  more  than  any 
thing  else  in  this  world,  for  sometimes  it  is  necessary  to  sac* 
rifice  so  much  of  the  heart's  desires  upon  the  altar  of  friend 
ship,  upon  whose  lintel  posts  are  the  words  in  unmistakable 
characters,  "  Greater  love  than  this  hath  no  man  than  he  lay 
down  his  life  for  a  friend."  And  yet  I  say  to  you,  my  poor 
Ruth,  greater  love  than  this  hath  no  woman,  than  she  who 
perils  her  reputation  for  a  friend.  This  I  am  willing  to  do 
for  you.  I  will  try  if  possible  to  win  your  husband  away 
from  his  mad  infatuation  since  you  desire  it.  Yet  though 
I  feel  the  futility  of  it,  I  am  none  the  less  willing  to  make 
the  effort.  Should  you  gain  your  heart's  best  hope,  I  am 
wondering  if  you  will  be  satisfied. 

Could  the  old  love  be  the  same?  Would  not  the  serpent 
of  distrust  be  ever  in  your  soul?  And  for  myself  I  wonder 


264  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

how  there  can  possibly  be  anything  in  your  heart  but  con 
tempt.  I  know  there  would  be  no  particle  of  love  left  in 
my  heart  were  I  you.  My  nature  commands  a  full  and  com 
plete  equivalent  in  return  for  what  1  give.  But  I  know  that 
we  are  not  all  alike,  and  knowing  the  poor  wronged  girl 
that  you  are,  I  will  not  falter  nor  count  the  cost,  but  would 
try  with  better  courage  if  only  I  knew  for  certain  that— 

"If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you." 

I  miss  you  dear  and  can  appreciate  your  loneliness,  but 
we  are  all  lonely — you  among  the  hills,  I  here  by  the  ocean's 
brink.  Yet  out  of  the  loneliness  and  isolation  of  which  you 
speak,  good  may  come  to  the  betterment  of  yourself.  You 
can  dwarf  your  soul,  starve  and  stunt  it  as  you  could  a  flower 
or  a  shrub.  But  isolation  does  not  necessarily  mean  starva 
tion.  At  times  it  means  rest,  and  I  trust  you  are  resting  nowr 
mentally  and  physically,  even  while  you  are  craving  com 
panionship  and  love.  While  it  may  not  be  according  to  your 
desires  that  you  are  forced  to  rely  upon  yourself,  you  have 
time  to  ponder,  to  think  and  get  somewhat  acquainted  with 
your  own  nature,  your  real  self,  and  you  will,  I  think,  realize 
that  there  is  one  victory  worth  the  effort,  one  great  battle  to 
be  won,  the  victory  over  self. 

In  your  lonely  moments  you  can  concentrate  your  thoughts 
upon  yourself.  Cease  to  think  of  your  loss,  your  sorrows. 
At  least  try  to  think,  and  hold  fast  to  the  belief,  that  your 
life  is  not  to  be  utterly  wrecked  by  the  wickedness  and  injus 
tice  of  another. 

"Fret  not  thyself  in  any  wise" — all  depressing  thoughts 
are  injurious,  all  healthy  thoughts  are  sweet.  Therefore  you 
must  strive  to  accept  your  fate,  contentedly  as  you  can,  for 
when  you  are  contented  you  are  nourished. 

I  know  you  want  to  do  right  and  that  is  the  only  road 
to  happiness.  I  think  the  best  good  one  can  do  to  others  is 
to  help  them  do  their  duty.  Your  first  duty,  however,  is  to 
yourself. 

Each  well-born  soul  must  win  what  it  deserves. 

You  can  overcome — you  can  forget  in  time,  remember 
that. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  265 

There  is  no  chance,  no  destiny — not  fate  can  circumvent 
or  hinder  or  control 

"The  firm  resolve  of  a  determined  soul." 

Your  one  great  thought  and  aim  must  be  only  this — to 
your  own  self  be  true.  After  a  time  you  will  conquer  for 
yours  is  the  better  way.  For  you  have  been  true  and  womanly 
in  the  midst  of  temptation  most  grievous  and  kept  yourself 
from  doing  wrong.  And  now  by  conquering  self,  you  can 
put  aside  the  old  and  usher  in  the  new  life,  wherein  may  be 
happiness  and  a  wonderful  power  for  good;  for  before  this 
great  grief  came  upon  you  you  lived  for  one  only. 

Dear  Ruth,  cannot  you  try  to  hunt  up  your  blessings,  look 
upon  the  bright  places,  hunt  for  the  warm  sunny  nooks. 
When  you  take  your  solitary  walks,  do  not  seek  the  damp, 
gloomy  spots;  there  will  be  less  of  sighs  in  the  warm,  joyous 
sunshine.  Life  is  short  at  best,  even  though  the  days  are 
interminable  to  you.  Shake  off  the  gloom — go  forth  in  the 
strength  of  your  young  life.  Why  not  go  to  Italy  and  join 
Edith?  I  wish  you  could  decide  to  go  and  while  you  are 
away  1  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  right  your  wrongs. 

I  wish  you  would  try  the  diversion  of  travel.  Sometimes 
the  greatest  curse  that  can  befall  us  is  to  be  given  our  heart's 
desires.  In  times  to  come  you  may  realize  that  which  you 
deem  the  curse  of  your  life  may  carry  a  blessing  in  its  arms. 

I  would  ask  you  to  see  and  walk  where  some  of  earth's 
sorrowing  ones  have  trod,  where  the  great  and  good  have 
left  lasting  testimonials  also.  I  would  ask  you  to  pause  for 
a  time  in  that  marvel — the  Cathedral  of  Milan.  Its  forest 
of  columns,  its  delicate  frost-like  tracery,  its  countless  statues, 
and  intricate  patterns,  of  fruits,  flowers  and  figures,  will  take 
you  out  of  yourself,  will  draw  your  very  soul  away  from  the 
littleness  of  earthly  things. 

Above  the  triple  doorways  are  some  inscriptions.  Over 
one  of  the  entrances  is  a  sculptured  cross  and  there  you  will 
read:  "All  that  which  troubles  is  but  for  a  moment." 

And  over  another  is  the  legend:  "All  that  which  pleases 
is  only  for  a  moment." 

And  over  the  great  central  entrance,  you  can  also  see  the 
inscription:  "That  only  is,  which  is  eternal." 


266  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Let  these  things  sink  deep  into  your  heart,  dear  friend. 
Cultivate  the  upward  look,  not  downward,  and  your  life 
will  be  richer  and  sweeter  by  self-renunciation.  The  thought 
of  forgetting  momentary  troubles  may  not  seem  possible  to 
you,  but  in  the  presence  of  past  history,  of  peoples  and 
nations,  you  will  have  scant  time  for  thoughts  of  self. 

In  Rome  you  may  pause  a  moment  at  Tasso's  tomb  and 
think  of  his  life.  Humiliated;  slighted;  of  his  woes  and 
wrongs;  and  you  will  think  I  know  also  of  how  much  richer 
is  the  world  for  his  having  lived.  You  may  go  along  the 
shining  road  that  leads  to  Ostia  some  quiet  afternoon,  and, 
as  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west,  you  will  muse  on  the  vicissitudes 
of  time;  you  will  think  that  over  this  road  passed  Saul  of 
Tarsus;  or  loiter  along  the  Via  Sacre  where  Cicero  and 
Horace  have  walked. 

You  may  stand  on  the  Palatine  Hill,  where  Caesar  fell, 
and  look  down  upon  the  Colosseum,  and  visions  of  unnum 
bered  martyrs  will  rise  before  you  who  perished  because  of 
their  faith.  You  will  see  ruins,  ruins  everywhere  that  tell 
of  love,  of  ambition,  of  death.  Go  to  Greece  and 
linger  thoughtfully  with  blind  old  Homer.  And  before  your 
mental  vision,  you  will  see  Helen  and  her  distaff  filled  with 
wool  of  violet  blue.  Sappho's  words  of  love  will  ring  in 
your  ears. 

From  the  Acropolis  you  can  look  across  to  a  hillside  not 
far  away,  and  think  of  Socrates  in  his  prison.  In  the  dis 
tance  a  glimpse  of  Marathon,  Salamis,  and  Attica  will  give 
you  sensations  that  will  be  worth  more  to  you  than  a  lifetime 
spent  in  reading  Byron,  or  any  other  who  may  have  at 
tempted  descriptions.  The  marvels  of  sculpture,  that  grew 
into  beauty  under  the  hands  of  Phidias;  the  Parthenon,  mag 
nificent  even  in  ruins,  will  excite  your  admiration  and  you 
will  be  lost  in  wonder  looking  at  the  work  of  those  old  Greek 
artificers  who  labored  and  finished  the  Parthenon  under 
Pericles. 

The  dreamy  mystery  of  those  giants  in  intellect,  the  heroes, 
gods  and  goddesses,  will  enthrall  you,  and  you  will,  because 
you  cannot  help  but  be  effected  by  the  memory  of  noble 
actions  and  deeds,  be  lifted  out  of  the  thought  of  self  and 


FROM   THE   WORLD  267 

will  feel  that  your  life  is  enriched  by  the  spell  of  that  long 
ago — of  men  and  things,  of  art,  of  melody.  The  glories  of 
a  by-gone  past,  the  promise  of  the  present  and  the  future 
will  cause  you  to  feel  the  littleness  of  self;  the  insignificance 
of  your  own  affairs,  in  the  history  of  mankind  and  of  the 
world. 

Self-pity  tends  to  one's  undoing.  Forget  self  and  your 
own  desires.  Give  your  mind  new  thoughts  to  feed  upon; 
and  your  strained  nerves  a  rest;  for  you  have  concentrated 
every  nerve  of  your  body  in  your  longings  to  be  once  more 
the  same  woman  to  your  husband  that  you  were  before  the 
other  came. 

You  are  weakened  by  mental  fatigue;  if  not  you  would 
clearly  understand  how  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  for  the 
old  relations  ever  to  be  resumed — especially  under  the  same 
conditions.  Would  not  the  face  of  the  other  woman,  the 
mother  of  his  son,  be  ever  before  your  mental  vision,  even  if 
you  were  once  again  installed  as  the, mistress  of  his  home? 
Could  you  be  certain  of  your  place  in  his  heart?  And,  now, 
my  dear,  go  forth  in  the  strength  of  your  purpose  with  your 
pilot,  Will,  at  the  helm;  forget  all  that  is  unworthy — seek 
the  good — think  deeply  on  subjects  foreign  to  yourself;  and 
think  also  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Stoics  that  we  should  be  free 
from  passion,  unmoved  by  joy  or  grief,  and  should  submit 
without  complaining  to  the  unavoidable. 

Now,  dear  Edith,  this  letter,  which  concerns  Ruth  more 
than  myself,  will  be  long  enough  for  you  to  read  this  time. 
In  another  soon  to  follow  I  will  tell  you  of  what  concerns 
your  friend  Aileen. 


XKIX 

"But  the  spirit's  food  is  love,  and  hearts  that 

starve  may  die  in  agony — 
And  no  physician  mark  the  cause  of  death." 

It  was  the  mountains  that  were  consecrated  by  the  presence 
of  God.  It  was  upon  their  heights  He  revealed  himself  to 
Moses.  There  are  many  Sinais  in  this  world,  lives  are  con 
secrated  upon  slopes  so  much  nearer  heaven  than  down  by  the; 
sea  level.  They  purify  and  uplift  one's  thoughts  upon  their 
altars.  It  was  upon  Calvary  that  Christ  was  crucified,  and 
upon  the  Mount  of  Olives  the  ascension  took  place.  And  I, 
upon  the  mountains  looking  toward  the  stars,  feel  comforted, 
and  feel  also  I  am  gaining  strength  to  endure  my  wrongs, 
dear  Aileen,  even  though  I  feel,  in  my  loneliness  and  solitude, 
about  as  useless  as  those  dead  stars  that  are  in  the  rayless 
ether.  For  I  know  too  well  he  who  vowed  to  love,  cherish 
and  protect,  killed  all  that  was  best  in  me — all  the  bright 
ness  went  out  of  my  life,  leaving  a  future  for  me  that  holds 
nothing  alluring.  The  fountain  of  hope  and  joy  went  dry 
when  the  knowledge  of  Bert's  treachery  burnt  and  seared 
my  heart.  I  can  look  forward  to  nothing  that  will  be  of 
comfort  to  me  unless  I  may  be  able  to  help  others  who  are  in 
need  of  sympathy.  *  *  *  Your  letter  asking  me  to  go 
abroad  has  occupied  a  great  deal  of  my  waking,  thinking 
moments.  You  are  wiser  than  I,  and  I  feel  that  I  should 
heed  your  admonition  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  other  mat 
ters.  Yet  I  must  abide  here  a  little  while  longer.  At  present 
I  have  not  the  courage,  nor  the  strength  to  travel.  I  am 
learning  my  lesson;  with  more  than  mere  mortal  patience 
I  await — strengthened  by  some  unknown  force  that  compels 
me  to  endure  my  life —  when  ofttimes  the  utter  uselessness  of 
it  appalls  me. 

I  look  at  the  glittering  stars  in  the  calm  heavens  and  pon 
der  over  the  years  that  stretch  ahead  of  me,  for  I  am  young 
in  years  if  old  in  suffering,  and  I  wonder  if  there  are  not 
fields  bright  with  flowers,  joyous  with  the  music  of  birds, 

268 


FROM   THE   WORLD  269 

and  all  that  is  bright  and  beautiful  in  that  other  world  above. 
Surely  among  the  myriads  of  stars  there  will  be  fairer  worlds 
than  this.  So  why  do  people  who  are  unhappy  dread  to  go 
hence?  Why  should  I  not  desire  to  go?  I  have  buried  the 
best  of  me  and  think  sometimes  that  my  sorrow  is  beyond 
human  endurance. 

I  can  tell  this  to  you,  dear,  and  to  none  other.  1  do  not 
want  the  sympathy  of  others  which  is  very  often  veiled  under 
a  sneer.  Nature  is  a  tender  nurse.  It  is  true  and  enters  into 
one's  moods.  The  trees  bending  low  over  me  as  I  sit  alone 
by  a  rippling  stream  shiver  in  a  gust  of  wind,  and  send 
showers  of  dewdrops  into  the  needless  waters,  and  I,  too, 
find  my  needless  tears  flowing,  hot  and  burning,  for  a  lost 
love — a  dead  love,  one  I  fear  even  while  buoyed  up  by  a 
faint  hope  will  never  be  mine  again. 

You  ask  me  to  forget.  God  knows  I  try  to  overcome  the 
heartaches,  try  to  grow  strong  and  well,  for  I  do  not  want 
to  grow  old  before  I  have  lived  years  enough  to  warrant  it. 
I  awaken  in  the  night  and  find  myself  sobbing  and  crying  for 
Bert  to  come,  and  the  silence  is  terrifying,  for  in  dreams  I 
hear  the  ringing  sweetness  of  his  voice  that  filled  my  soul, 
steeped  my  senses  in  the  old  sweet  delirium  of  love  that 
was  ecstatic  for  a  moment.  Then  my  sobs  bring  the  old  hurt 
with  the  awakening,  and  the  sickening  terror  of  my  loss,  for 
it  is  the  dread  that  grows  deeper  day  by  day  that  he  does  not 
care,  that  he  has  forgotten — yet  even  with  the  knowledge 
scorching  my  heart,  it  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  I  love  him 
even  as  I  did  when  I  thought  he  loved  me. 

I  may  not  share  his  thoughts,  his  life,  but  God  help  me, 
I  can  love  and  that  is  better  than  to  forget.  But  I  try  to 
suppress  my  fears,  to  forget  my  loneliness  as  much  as  I  can, 
dear,  and  often  throw  myself  down  on  the  earth  and  listen 
ing  1  seem  to  hear  the  sympathetic  heart  beating  beneath  the 
pine-needles,  strong,  magnetic,  powerful,  soothing  and  com 
forting.  So  I  am  helped  and  feel  that  if  there  is  a  balm  for 
my  grief,  it  is  here  now.  Later  on  I  may  put  a  good  portion 
of  this  world  between  my  lost  love  and  myself.  When  the 
time  comes,  and  you  tell  me  it  will  come,  then  I  shall  feel 
different.  But  now  pray  that  I  may  be  able  to  endure  the 


270  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

present  and  not  be  too  eager  to  lift  the  curtain  that  hides  the 
future. 

My  life  at  best  now  is  like  a  long  and  gloomy  tunnel  with 
out  a  gleam  of  light;  even  the  one  faint  beacon  star  of  hope 
is  dimmed.  There  are  no  joyful  dreams  to  cheer  me,  only 
bitterness  and  unconquerable  longings.  I  try  to  be  rational, 
to  look  at  my  life  as  I  would  at  a  picture.  1  do  not  see  it  in  an 
enviable  light.  It  is  not  even  "skyed."  If  so  there  might  be 
a  gleam  from  some  stray  sunbeam  or  wandering  star  to  light 
it  up  for  the  moment,  but  it  is  on  a  dull  colorless  level  that  has 
nothing  but  a  cold  gray  atmosphere  that  is  both  frame  and 
perspective. 

It  has  been  said  that  no  true  love  is  in  vain.  Yet,  I  ask 
you,  what  has  it  profited  me  to  give  my  whole  soul,  my  heart's 
best  and  only  love  and  all  that  was  sweet  and  worth  while 
in  the  world  for  me?  What  have  I  gained? — nothing  that 
the  most  wretched  on  earth  would  covet.  A  ruined  life  con 
fronts  me,  and  can  I  hope  to  build  anew? 

But  you  cheer  me  and  give  me  hope,  even  though  it  be 
only  a  faint  spark  left  amid  the  dull  gray  ashes.  You  say 
that  it  is  life's  best  gift  to  hope — its  worst  is  to  know.  God 
grant  that  I  may  keep  my  reason  and  that  I  shall  not  know, 
if  it  be  the  worst.  RUTH. 


XXX 

"As  Indian  mothers  see  babes  die  for  food, 
She  watched  dry-eyed  beside  her  starving  heart." 

There  may  be  something  in  mental  telegraphy,  Edith,  but 
I  do  not  know  if  it  will  apply  to  written  messages.  Still, 
when  the  postman  rang  the  bell  a  day  or  so  ago,  I  seemed  to 
know  fully  as  well  that  I  would  have  your  letter,  as  I  did  a 
moment  later,  when  my  maid  brought  it  to  me.  You  are  a 
dear  girl  to  write  me  so  promptly  and  I  am  as  delighted  to 
read  your  letters  as  if  I  were  a  young  girl  receiving  a  love 
letter.  For  you  speak  of  things,  of  places  I  love,  and  which 
1  fain  would  see  again.  If  we  only  had  a  system  of  wireless 
telegraphy,  then  I  might  say  to  you  much  that  it  is  not 
possible  to  write.  There  would  be  heart  to  heart  talks  we 
would  both  enjoy,  but  which  might  seem  foolish  if  written. 

In  my  last  I  told  you  fully  of  Ruth's  sorrows,  and  that  she 
has  given  me  the  almost  hopeless  task  of  trying  to  bring 
Bert  to  his  senses.  The  idea  is  revolting,  for  in  my  heart  I 
despise  the  man,  yet  for  her  sake  I  must  use  flattery  and 
stoop  to  duplicity  and  deceit.  Yet  I  would  do  all  this  cheer 
fully  if  I  thought  it  were  worth  while.  However,  the  effort 
must  be  made  for  her  sake.  Just  now  she  is  simply  existing, 
and  were  it  not  for  the  faint  hope  in  his  ultimate  return  to 
her,  I  fear  she  would  not  be  able  to  endure  her  life. 

Barred  from  the  one  human  heart  she  loved  and  trusted, 
the  whole  world  is  empty  now  for  her.  Just  when  she 
thought  her  haven  of  rest  and  peace  was  found,  she  was 
driven  out  by  wickedness  and  cruelty  without  the  shadow  of 
an  excuse;  by  the  fiendishness,  the  brutality  and  selfishness  of 
a  man,  who  listened  only  to  his  wicked  partner  in  crime;  and 
cared  more  for  his  own  selfish  pleasures  than  the  heart 
broken  woman,  who  failed  to  interest  or  amuse  him  before 
the  birth  of  her  child,  and  who  was  of  still  less  concern  when 
ill  and  grieving  over  her  little  babe. 


272  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

My  dear,  remember  a  woman  should  save  her  heart  if  it 
were  possible  from  going  out  in  a  hopeless  love.  It  is  best 
always  to  subordinate  the  feelings  and  give  sense  and  reason 
a  show.  If  so,  there  would  be  less  wrecked  lives,  which  are 
sacrificed  to  romantic  and  senseless  fancies,  and  which  often 
scorch  the  heart  with  the  very  madness  of  a  love  that  banishes 
contentment  and  peace. 

Poor  Ruth's  cup  of  joy  was  so  full  for  a  few  brief  months, 
that  it  brimmed  over  and  intoxicated  her,  for  her  love  was  a 
mad  idolatrous  passion,  that  thrilled  her  with  the  ecstasy 
of  possession,  of  feeling  that  her  hero,  her  idol  was  hers 
alone;  the  handsome,  fascinating,  clever  husband,  her  love 
and  trust  in  him  was  supreme. 

He  was  so  different  to  other  men — a  sort  of  divinity  to  her. 
She  never  thought  of  the  sufferings  he  would  heap  upon  her, 
or  his  brutality  which  cropped  out  when  the  reality  of 
married  life  palled  upon  him.  But  the  temptress  came  and 
you  know  the  result.  I  think  I  can  appreciate  such  a  love  as 
hers,  though  I  am  sure  I  am  incapable  of  it  myself.  A  love 
that  patiently  endures  unkindness  and  indifference  and  in 
sult  is  doubtless  grand;  and  perchance  is  nobler  than  pride. 
Such  a  love  ought  to  convert  Bert  and  bless  him  by  its  purity 
and  steadfastness,  but  l  'Whatsoever  a  man  soweth  that  shall 
he  also  reap,"  and  being  arrayed  on  the  weaker  side  I  pray 
fervently  that  he  may  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  binding  the 
sheaves  of  regret."  Of  one  thing  I  am  pretty  sure,  Edith 
dear,  that  I  shall  never  allow  my  affections  to  go  beyond  my 
control.  If  I  ever  indulge  in  the  grand  passion,  I  shall 
love  as  long  and  deeply  as  does  the  one  whom  I  shall  honor 
with  my  affections.  I  know  that  I  shall  not  love  one  moment 
longer  than  my  lover  shall  love  me.  Any  change  in  love's 
temperature  will  at  once  touch  the  mercury  in  my  nature  and 
cause  a  corresponding  rise  or  fall  as  the  case  may  be.  I  have 
felt  this  deeply  in  my  friendship.  Then  how  much  greater 
will  I  feel  the  slightest  change  in  love's  atmosphere. 

I  know  that  men  are  selfish.  They  like  constancy,  truth 
and  purity  in  woman.  While  they  exact  these  things  in  the 
woman  they  honor  with  their  regard,  it  is  a  rare  one,  my 
friend,  who  feels  that  he  must  give  in  return  that  which  he 


FROM   THE   WORLD  273 

receives.  Nature  has  endowed  me  with  certain  character 
istics,  which  demand  an  exact  return  for  what  I  give.  I 
despise  base  and  mean  things,  yet  do  not  want  to  pose  as  a 
very  good  woman.  Those  very  good  women — I  have  known 
a  few — are  usually  quite  uninteresting  and  generally  find  a 
man  for  a  husband  who  is  willing  to  have  them  preside  over 
the  home,  bear  his  name  and  children,  and  he  gives  the  good 
woman  a  sort  of  oatmeal  and  skimmed  milk  kind  of  affection, 
which  passes  for  love.  And  that,  mind  you,  is  all  she  ever 
gets,  for  it  is  the  other  woman  with  a  little  spice  in  her 
nature  that  attracts  and  often  gains  the  man's  passionate 
love — beside  which  the  love  given  his  wife  is  as  whipped 
cream  is  to  whey. 

I  said  this  recently  to  a  friend,  and  added  that  I  was  not 
fond  of  whey  or  curds.  She  said  the  skimmed-milk  propo 
sition  might  be  better  in  the  long  run,  that  too  much  cream 
was  not  good  for  us  physically  or  mentally,  and  that  she  had 
noticed  mad  passions  often  ended  in  disgust  or  indifference. 
I  was  afraid  she  had  reference  to  Bert  and  Ruth,  though  so 
far  their  separation  is  unknown.  She  is  supposed  to  be  away 
from  home  on  account  of  her  health. 

But  to  return  to  myself,  I  told  you  that  I  was  going  to  do  all 
I  could  to  help  Ruth,  and  I  am  bracing  myself  for  the  battle. 
I  do  not  claim  to  have  any  unnecessary  vices,  but  I  have 
enough  to  show  by  contrast  the  virtues  I  possess.  If  there 
was  not  the  sense  of  power  within  me,  if  I  did  not  feel  capable 
of  conquest,  or  at  least  feel  that  it  were  worth  while  trying, 
think  you  that  I  would  venture?  It  may  be  a  battle  royal, 
but  I  am  predestined  and  foreordained  to  go  into  this 
encounter  upheld  by  the  righteousness  of  my  aim. 

A  weaker  and  a  better  woman,  would  counsel  Ruth  to 
leave  her  cause  to  an  all-wise  Providence.  But  here  is  where 
I  am  not  very  good,  for  I  feel  deep  in  my  heart  the  desire 
to  see  him  writhe  and  suffer  if  such  thing  were  possible,  even 
as  he  has  made  Ruth  suffer.  Only  the  tempted  know  what 
temptation  means,  and  I  am  not  trying  to  resist  the  idea  that 
comes  to  me  again  and  again.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  the  un 
expected  that  was  going  to  happen,  as  it  always  is  happening 
to  people  somewhere  or  other.  Yet  I  am  not  faltering. 


274  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  know  that  women  in  love  will  very  often  face  the  world, 
daring  and  even  challenging  publicity  it  would  seem,  knowing 
all  the  while  that  a  grain  of  publicity  would  ruin  them  in  the 
eyes  of  the  dear  social  world  which  asks  only,  if  you  must 
live  in  glass  houses,  do  not  turn  on  the  electric  lights;  yet 
they  risk  it,  and  the  smirch,  for  the  sake  of  a  love  which  must 
be  strong  enough  to  cast  self  aside,  while  if  they  only 
possessed  a  grain  of  selfishness  which  the  men  have  how 
different  many  lives  would  be.  Well,  my  dear,  I  am  not  in 
love,  and  realize  that  I  am  taking  chances,  all  for  the  wish 
to  help  a  friend.  "Greater  love  than  this" — you  know  the 
rest. 

I  realize  that  I  am  only  an  ordinary  mortal.  Only  a  Patti 
might  take  the  reins  of  fate  in  her  own  hands,  and  bowl  along 
over  smooth  roads  while  the  world  applauded.  Only  a 
Bernhardt  could  have  an  accident  or  two  before  marriage, 
and  yet  have  all  the  world  at  her  feet.  It  is  left  lesser  mortals 
to  buffet  and  feel  the  scorn  of  the  world  that  is  as  hard  as  the 
nether  mill-stone,  and  as  unforgiving  and  insatiable  in  its 
persecutions  upon  one  who  accidentally,  and  more  often  than 
otherwise  if  innocent  of  the  wiles  of  men,  is  unknowingly 
placed  beyond  the  pale  of  social  life  before  she  is  aware  of 
the  crime. 

I  do  not  know — do  any  of  us? — that  we  are  warped 
mentally.  I  am  rather  certain  that  I  am  all  right  physically, 
and  I  try  to  look  at  myself  honestly  at  times;  but  fear  that 
I  am  somewhat  prejudiced.  We  grow  to  look  kindly  upon 
our  belongings  and  find  old  things  are  dear,  and  we  fail  to 
see  age  or  crookedness  in  many  things  we  have.  Yet  I  am 
rather  sure  of  myself — for  they  can  command  who  believe 
they  can.  So  strong  in  my  belief  I  go  forth  to  conquer  or 
fail.  Only  fate  can  answer  which  it  shall  be. 

AILEEN. 


XXXI 

"Whatever    is    taught    or    told, 

However  men  moan  or  sigh, 
Love   never   shall   grow   cold 

And  life  shall  never  die." 

These  words  of  Bayard  Taylor  have  been  running 
through  my  mind  today,  since  reading  your  last  letter,  Aileen, 
and  I  am  wondering  if  his  experiences  were  not  rather 
limited.  You  and  I  are  not  old  as  the  years  go;  but  we  have 
had  time  a-plenty  to  learn  that  love,  as  warmed  on  the  altar 
fires  of  some  hearts,  grows  cold  indeed  from  lack  of  interest, 
probably,  in  keeping  the  fires  replenished. 

That  life  can  never  die  may  be  a  comfort  to  most  of  earth's 
wanderers,  who  strive  to  do  as  near  right  as  understanding 
will  allow  them  to  do.  But  when  one  finds  a  man  like  Bert 
Wilder,  fashioned  in  the  image  of  his  Maker,  so  far  as  the 
exterior  is  concerned,  but  fitted  up  internally  by  satanic 
influences,  the  question  arises,  If  life  shall  never  die,  what 
sort  of  life  will  his  be  in  the  hereafter?  Will  he  be  exempt 
from  all  the  wrongs  he  has  done  here,  and  revel  in  a  beautiful 
heaven  with  poor  Ruth  and  some  of  the  rest  of  us,  who  have 
tried  to  wrong  no  one,  even  when  sorely  tempted  at  times  ? 

I  am  not  cat-like  by  nature,  but  feel  my  fingers  tingle  at  the 
thought  of  him  and  his  poor  deserted  wife.  But  I  am 
human  enough  and  revengeful  enough,  to  wish  you  all 
possible  success  in  your  efforts  to  win  him  away  from  his 
present  infatuation.  For  I  am  rather  sure  it  is  only  tem 
porary.  These  affairs  are  seldom  otherwise.  If  you  could 
only  make  him  suffer  a  little  bit  of  what  Ruth  has  endured, 
it  would  be  retaliation,  and  might  give  him  a  better  chance 
to  redeem  himself  here  on  earth,  and  there  will  be  more 
here — and  less  of  purgatory  hereafter  for  him.  Am  I 
revengeful?  Perhaps;  at  any  rate  I  wish  you  all  success, 
you  are  to  enter  a  campaign  in  a  righteous  cause,  the  strong 
aiding  the  weak.  Nature  has  amply  endowed  you  mentally 

275 


276  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

and  physically  for  the  undertaking  and  I  shall  expect  only 
good  reports. 

I  do  not  understand  in  this  enlightened  age  that  there  need 
be  one  law  for  men  and  another  for  women.  We  have  out 
grown  some  theories  and  traditions,  and  Bert  had  scarcely 
the  right  to  treat  Ruth  as  he  has. 

In  the  days  of  ancient  Rome,  it  was  the  custom  for  men  to 
put  away  their  wives,  whenever  they  chose,  unquestioned. 
Later  it  became  necessary  to  record  the  fact  before  a  pro 
curator;  gradually  it  became  the  custom,  if  the  woman  was 
blameless,  the  man  was  forced  to  provide  for  her.  This  was 
the  first  gleam  of  light  in  the  recognition  that  a  woman  had 
any  right  to  expect  anything  like  justice  from  the  hands  of 
man,  when  he  chose  to  be  brutal.  Not  until  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  reigned,  came  the  wonder  of  the  world  at  that  time — a 
woman  under  Roman  rule  dared  to  appear  before  the 
tribunal  with  a  woman  friend  as  attorney  and — take  heed,  my 
friend — the  woman  succeeded! 

It  was  afterwards  under  the  ruling  of  Constantine,  who 
brought  Christianity  with  him  into  Rome,  displacing  Pagan 
ism  and  a  few  other  objectionable  things  that  the  rights  of 
women  were  practically  cancelled,  and  not  until  one  thou 
sand  years  later  was  there  much  if  any  change  in  her  con 
dition. 

However,  we,  with  all  the  pride  we  have  in  our  own  free 
country,  have  not  overmuch  to  be  proud  of.  It  is  not  so  very 
long  ago  that  a  man  in  our  glorious  nation's  capital  thrashed 
his  wife  for  wearing  bloomers  on  the  street  and  was  ap 
plauded  by  a  learned  judge  for  the  act !  I  am  very  sure 
that  Ruth,  like  the  one  of  old,  is  most  fortunate  in  having 
you  for  a  friend  and  attorney.  For  she  is  so  devoted  to 
her  church  that  I  fear  she  will  not  avail  herself  of  the  rational 
solution  of  the  difficulty  and  get  a  divorce. 

I  know  how  her  nature  shrinks  from  publicity,  yet  she 
certainly  has  the  sanction  of  the  Scriptures,  which  gives  un 
faithfulness  as  the  only  excuse  for  divorce.  So  she  might 
easily  have  the  sanction  of  the  church  if  she  can  only  get  her 
heart  to  acquiesce.  I  should  not  care,  I  fancy,  if  his  imper 
fections  were  laid  bare  to  the  world.  I  would  prefer  that 


FROM   THE   WORLD  277 

to  hiding  away  like  a  guilty  thing  as  she  is  now  doing,  and 
leaving  the  world  to  misjudge  her,  possibly. 

Whereas,  if  the  public  knew  the  truth  of  his  cruelty  to  her, 
his  warmed  over  affections  might  quickly  cool  under  the 
world's  cold  criticism;  for  the  world's  good  opinion  is  dearer 
to  him,  I  fancy,  than  the  love  of  any  woman,  other  than 
his  wife,  if  I  understand  the  man's  nature.  And  had  she 
insisted  upon  her  rights  even  up  to  the  divorce  courts,  I  think 
she  would  have  found  him  a  different  sort  of  man  to  deal 
with.  My  idea  of  Ruth  is,  that  though  she  has  been  brought 
up  under  the  pure  light  of  Christianity,  she  has  gone  back 
to  Paganism,  and  unconsciously,  perhaps,  is  making  a  god  of 
a  very  human  man,  and  is  worshipping  an  idol  of  common 
clay. 

But  enough  of  my  moralizing.  I  will  tell  you  that  since 
my  last  letter  to  you  I  have  been  traveling  through  different 
portions  of  Italy.  1  am  only  mentioning  some  places,  just 
to  give  you  an  idea  that  I  am  not  wasting  my  time.  We 
will  have  enough  to  talk  about  some  day  when  we  can  com 
pare  notes.  I  have  walked  the  white  sands  in  the  hush  of 
the  morning,  under  a  sky  of  primrose  color  that  borders  the 
turquoise  colored  crescent  of  water  framed  in  by  ilex  trees, 
under  whose  shade  Shelley  wrote  the  "Cenci." 

I  have  sailed  in  boats  on  Como  which  floated  over  the  dark 
blue  waters  with  sails  like  the  breasts  of  swans.  Have 
watched  the  star-sprinkled  waters  of  Lake  Maggiore,  and 
listened  to  the  songs  of  the  peasants  in  the  gloaming,  while 
they  worked  or  idled  the  hours  away  among  the  fire-flies  or 
let  their  boats  drift  idly,  resting  their  oars  as  the  notes  of 
the  Angelus  came  trembling,  some  near,  some  far,  from 
unseen  churches,  brooding  over  small  villages,  hidden  in  the 
mountains. 

I  have  listened  to  the  nightingales  in  the  Tuscan  Vales. 
I  have  seen  the  moonlight  on  Fiesole — and  on  San  Miniato — 
you  know  the  dear  old  Etruscan  town  high  up  on  the  slopes 
beyond  Florence.  I  need  the  dull  blues,  and  green  grays, 
and  the  yellows  of  the  old  masters  to  paint  the  scene  as  I 
beheld  it  one  day.  Words,  1  fear,  can  give  you  but  an  idea 
only.  I  saw  the  grayish  green  of  the  olive  trees  banked  up 


278  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

against  hills,  which  show  the  yellow  soil  amid  duller  shades 
of  green,  which  seemed  to  enhance  the  beauty  of  the  groves; 
they  mean  nothing  in  particular  to  you  or  me,  who  are  accus 
tomed  to  olive  orchards  at  home.  Ours  fresh  and  young, 
in  their  infancy  almost,  are  the  merest  babes  beside  these 
gnarled  and  twisted  giants  of  centuries  old,  that  are  keeping 
watch  here  as  they  are  at  Tivoli,  beyond  Rome  and  the 
Campagna. 

The  blue  sky  here  is  no  bluer  than  California  skies,  as  you 
well  know,  and  it  seems  commonplace  in  the  telling.  Yet  the 
picture  as  I  saw  it,  is  extremely  Italian.  It  had  an  atmos 
phere  of  its  own  that  is  not  imagined.  It  is  the  atmosphere 
of  time,  of  age — that  one  reverences — and  is  unlike  our 
newness. 

Out  on  the  road  to  Fiesole  I  loitered  one  blessed  after 
noon;  resting  on  an  old  gray  wall,  I  breathed  the  fragrant 
air,  body  and  soul  steeped  in  the  calm  beauty  of  the  place. 
An  old  mottled  convent  wall  crimsoned  here  and  there  with 
splashes  of  damask  roses,  and  a  tree  white  with  orange  blos 
soms  with  a  yellow  globe  now  and  then  showing  last  year's 
fruit,  was  near  me,  reminding  me  of  our  own  fruit  and  blos 
soms  at  home.  And  my  thoughts  were  with  you  on  the  rim 
of  the  Western  World,  breathing  the  same  perfumes  and 
sending,  I  believed,  a  thought  now  and  then  to  me. 

Wandering  on,  I  saw  fragments  and  bits  of  sculpture  that 
existed  in  unbroken  beauty  under  a  civilization  finer  than  any 
thing  in  our  progressive  days.  1  looked  far  across  to  the 
misty  Vallambrosan  hills,  an  amethystine  haze  hovered  over 
fair  Florence  and  westward  to  the  peaks  of  the  Carrara 
Mountains.  Below  me  the  peasants  were  singing  as  they 
always  are,  in  this  country,  tender  love  songs  and  snatches 
of  operatic  airs.  No  matter  how  poor  they  are,  there  is 
always  a  song  bubbling  up  from  the  heart,  singing  like  birds, 
spontaneous,  yet  full  of  melody  and  passion.  The  sounds 
came  soft  and  tender,  with  a  breath  from  the  rose-scented 
terraces;  and  added  to  the  fragrance  and  the  songs,  was  the 
richness  of  tones  of  color — the  violet  and  deep  amethyst  of 
the  sky. 

The  Apenines  gleamed  through  a  blue  mist  that,  chang 
ing  into  softer  hues  formed  a  fitting  background  for  a  picture 


FROM   THE   WORLD  279 

of  the  Lucca  hills.  Over  there  lies  the  Via  Crucis,  and  the 
river  flashing  as  it  winds  its  way  by  village  and  hamlet 
through  the  fair  plains  of  Tuscany,  westward  to  the  sea.  I 
saw  roads  lined  with  chestnut  trees,  and  long  lines  of  stone 
walls,  gray  and  broken,  but  over  whose  scars  and  rents  vines 
creep  up  and  twine  lovingly,  falling  in  avalanches  of  green 
and  blossoming  abandonment.  Well  kept  villas,  old  tumbled 
down  houses  and  older  palaces  gave  me  pictures  to  recall  and 
showed  scenes  ineffaceable.  I  looked  upon  all  the  freshness 
of  nature  about  me  and  then  at  the  ruins  of  walls,  palaces 
and  churches  which  are  a  petrifaction  of  thoughts  of  hope, 
realized  or  otherwise,  of  the  builders  and  makers  of  the  for 
gotten  dead. 

I  thought  of  the  old  masters  who  loved  the  fair  old  city 
of  Florence,  of  the  harmony  of  color  which  they  loved  and 
painted  or  endeavored  to  do,  so  long  ago,  of  their  work 
there  in  the  Pitti,  and  Uffizi  galleries,  of  the  unrivaled  col 
lection  of  paintings  and  statuary,  and  of  the  poor  artists  1 
saw  there  copying  the  pictures,  gaunt  and  poverty  stricken 
as  many  undoubtedly  are,  working  at  starvation  prices,  while 
all  this  wealth  of  color,  form  and  beauty,  is  inviting  them 
to  copy  from  nature,  to  insist  on  themselves  rather  than  spend 
a  lifetime  of  imitation.  They  should  study  and 

"Read    what    is    still    unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God," 

and  so  gain  wisdom,  peace  and  recompense,  a  sure  reward 
from  nature.  I  feel  that  I  am  doubly  blessed  in  coming  here. 
It  seems  one  could  achieve  almost  anything,  amid  such  sur 
roundings.  Nature  grants  no  diplomas.  One  does  not  desire 
them,  or  anything  save  the  love,  the  satisfaction  that  fills  the 
heart  to  overflowing,  that  strengthens,  satisfies,  and  fills  the 
soul  with  happiness,  when  studying  and  learning  something 
new.  It  seems  possible  for  one  to  be  one  of  the  seers,  one  of 
earth's  blessed  ones — like  Michael  Angelo,  and  see  with 
eyes  of  faith,  even  if  the  hands  be  unable  to  carve,  the  beau 
tiful  angels  in  the  cold  shapeless  stone.  *  *  *  In 
Florence  is  the  church  Carmine  where  are  some  wonderful 
frescoes  from  which  the  old  masters  drew  their  inspiration. 
Now,  in  other  halls,  other  artists  draw  from  the  old  masters. 


28o  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Rather  strange,  is  it  not,  this  persistency  in  copying? 
Surely  there  is  something  lacking,  energy  or  lack  of  apprecia 
tion.  Nature  never  tires  the  lover,  for  it  always  enriches, 
it  comforts,  but  it  does  not  corrupt.  Hoard  up  its  treasures, 
its  riches  as  we  may,  we  cannot  exhaust  or  impoverish  her,  for 
there  are  boundless  blessings  for  one  and  all  to  search.  There 
is  peace,  harmony  and  healing  in  the  wandering  winds,  soul- 
satisfying  harmonies  of  quivering  leaves  and  rustling  grasses, 
the  songs  of  birds  and  faint  murmurings  of  waters,  the  hum 
of  insects,  the  fleecy  clouds  piled  high,  changing,  disappear 
ing,  reappearing  in  fantastic  forms,  but  always  attractive  in 
ephemeral  loveliness.  In  whatever  form  or  aspect  viewed, 
the  earth  and  the  heavens  never  pall  or  cloy  the  artist,  the 
rich  or  the  poor;  all  find  an  inexhaustible  supply  and  the 
appetite  of  the  appreciative  is  never  sated. 

I  wonder  at  the  artists  and  the  demand  of  the  public  for 
the  same  copies  as  the  years  go  by;  battered  angels,  footless 
madonnas,  a  torso,  a  noseless  face,  all  are  sketched,  and  the 
hundreds  of  madonnas  painted  with  the  brassy  aureole  hang 
ing  miraculously  above  their  all-unconscious  heads.  The 
bloated  bow-legged  Christ  child  in  evidence  everywhere 
before  which  adoring  people  bow,  is  neither  human  or  divine 
according  to>  my  idea  of  form,  except  in  a  few  cases  and 
they  are  easily  picked  out  of  the  hundred  and  more  in  the 
two  galleries. 

Just  to  show  you  I  am  appreciative  I  will  ease  your  mind 
by  saying  I  like  the  "Annunciation,"  by  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
and  the  "Madonna  in  Affliction" — and  "Cumean  Sybil,"  by 
Sassoferrato.  Titian's  "Flora"  and  "La  Madeline,"  Guido 
Reni's  "Cleopatra"  and  "Triumph  of  David"  by  Rubens, 
all  appeal  to  me,  as  do  hosts  of  others.  But  in  these  days 
of  ready-made  clothing  and  in  the  made-to-order-while-you- 
wait  age,  I  wonder  if  machine-made  paintings  will  not  soon 
be  in  vogue  and  the  ambitious  artist  will  be  simply  a  machin 
ist.  If  so,  there  might  be  some  compensation.  There  will 
be  fewer  copies,  less  of  the  nightmare  representations  of 
Beatrice  Cenci  and  newer  subjects.  *  *  *  Don't 
think  I  have  fallen  from  grace  or  that  I  am  losing  my  appre 
ciation  of  art.  It  is  not  so  and  I  have  been  scribbling  some 


FROM   THE   WORLD  281 

of  my  thoughts  to  you  while  feasting  my  eyes  at  intervals 
upon  scenes  described.  I  will  paint  a  picture  of  a  certain 
spot  that  will  interest  you;  and  I  will  bring  it  that  you  may 
refresh  your  memory.  And,  now  from  Fiesole  1  am  going 
back  to  Firenze,^is  the  natives  love  to  call  Florence,  down 
that  dream  of  a  road  built  not  by  taxation,  but  by  issuing 
patents  of  nobility  to  Americans  and  Englishmen  who  were 
willing  to  pay  for  a  false  title  in  the  days  of  Tuscany's  grand 
dukes,  that  admission  might  be  obtained  within  the  charmed 
circle.  Regretfully  I  shall  say  good-bye  to  the  quaint  old 
town  of  Fiesole,  that  was  old  when  Rome  was  in  its  infancy; 
its  dirty  but  picturesque  beggars,  who  make  a  pretense  of 
braiding  straw  into  fancy  baskets  and  fans  for  the  souvenir 
hunter.  I  will  take  a  last  glance  at  the  Vale  d'Arno  from 
the  plateau  in  front  of  the  Franciscan  Church  and  drink  in 
the  ineffable  beauty  of  the  scene. 

The  dear  old  earth  is  so  beautiful,  it  is  not  strange,  dear, 
that  we  forget  at  times  to  look  heavenward.  The  eye  of  faith 
is  hardly  strong  enough  to  see  beyond  this  earth,  God's  glori 
ous  footstool;  and  how  glad,  how  more  than  thankful  am  I, 
that  it  has  been  permitted  me  to  see  a  little  of  this  dear  world. 
And  I  know  it  has  made  a  better  woman  of  me.  I  am  trying 
to  improve  myself  as  best  I  can  by  observation  and  study. 

Some  things  interest  me  fully  as  much  as  my  description 
of  places  written  you.  In  Italy  and  in  Florence  particularly 
I  am  interested  in  the  people  of  today,  while  thinking  of  the 
depravity  that  existed  and  that  reached  its  height  under 
Lorenzo  de  Medici, — the  need  of  Savonarola's  presence,  his 
teachings — and  I  think  of  the  eight  years'  work — how  his 
voice  rang  through  the  turbulent  city  that  wanted  him  at  that 
particular  time.  I  have  lingered  in  the  Duomo  and  the  square 
that  once  echoed  back  the  voice  of  Savonarola,  pleading, 
asking  these  impressionable  people  to  turn  to  something  bet 
ter.  How  well  he  succeeded  for  a  time,  and  the  strong 
tide  of  reform  that  drew  people  irresistibly  by  its  strength 
into  an  atmosphere  of  fasting  and  prayer,  of  self-renuncia 
tion  of  the  vanities  of  life — you  perhaps  remember  to  have 
read. 

I  have  gazed  upon  the  statue  and  fountain  where  the  man 
who  worked  for  the  good  of  his  people  was  burned  and  have 


282 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


mused  upon  the  reaction  and  think  how  unreal,  unstable  are 
the  emotions  that  sway  humanity.  A  people  who  fasted  and 
prayed,  who  not  only  renounced  the  vanities  of  life,  but  sacri 
ficed  in  their  foolish  frenzy  pictures,  statues  and  rare  books — 
things  that  could  not  be  to  them  necessities  were  brought — 
untold  treasures — and  heaped  together  and  consigned  to  the 
flames,  even  as  he,  the  author  and  instigator  of  the  reform, 
was  sacrificed  later  on. 


MONUMENT    IN    FLORENCE    WHERE    SAVONAROLA    WAS    BURNED. 

I  look  down  upon  the  city  beautiful  in  its  environments.  I 
think  of  it  in  the  fifteenth  century  in  the  height  of  its  splen 
dor,  one  of  the  most  cultured  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  Italian  cities,  the  center  of  intellectual  and 
artistic  life,  a  model  of  all  that  was  elegant,  and  wonder  at 
the  inconsistency  of  human  nature.  Her  people  are  quiet 
now;  there  is  not  the  pomp  of  other  centuries.  Yet  her 
charm  is  felt  by  all  who  come  within  her  gates.  There  are 
art  treasures  that  enthrall  one  in  her  galleries,  her  churches 


FROM   THE   WORLD  283 

and  museums.  The  old  Duomo,  the  Baptistry,  with  the  won 
derful  bronze  gates,  the  Campanile,  and  her  historic  streets, 
the  Arno  and  fair  environs  touch  the  heart.  History  and 
mystery  cling  to  the  palaces  and  walls  and  cling  to  one's 
heart,  leaving  ineflaceable  impressions. 

Florence  has  fallen  from  her  exalted  state.  Mutations  of 
time  give  food  for  thought,  my  dear,  until  one's  mind  flags 
and  begs  for  rest  and  lighter  themes.  I  get  tired  of  too  much 
history.  So  much  of  the  old,  that  dates  back  to  the  dim  old 
Etruscan  times  and  days  of  Dante,  Michael  Angelo,  Boc- 
cacio,  and  Galileo,  all  figure  in  Florence,  the  Medici-haunted 
city,  and  swing  back  and  forth  through  my  mental  vision  like 
the  pendulum  in  Galileo's  dreams.  And  I,  tired,  turn  away 
from  it  all,  even  as  the  sun  turned  away  from  the  earth  in 
Galileo's  dream,  and  seek  a  well  earned  and  needed  rest. 

EDITH. 


XXXII 

"Shall  we  meet  no  more,  my  love,  at  the  binding 

of  the  sheaves, 
In   the   happy   harvest   fields   as   the   sun   sinks 

low, 
When  the   orchard  paths  are  dim  with  the   drift 

of  fallen  leaves, 
As  the  reapers  sing  together  in  the  misty  eves?" 

The  cluster  of  houses  called  a  town  is  rimmed  by  white 
alkali  earth  and  stunted  grasses,  which  stretching  away  in 
endless  desolation  is  spotted  like  a  leper.  The  desert  lies  hot 
and  glittering  in  the  heat  waves,  a  desolate  thing  cursed 
by  God  and  man.  In  its  terrorizing  alkaline  sterility,  water- 
forgotten  and  God-forsaken,  this  sun-cursed  land  that  has 
been  pierced  by  the  sun's  red  shafts  since  the  earth  was 
young,  and  even  before  the  hand  of  Cain  was  lifted  and  the 
greedy  earth  drank  his  brother's  blood,  seems  crying  for  ven 
geance  in  its  desolation. 

It  is  ever  at  war  with  life,  and  makes  the  bravest  aware 
of  its  personality;  in  its  cruel  heat  which  dries  and  shrivels, 
in  its  lying,  phantom-like  semblance  of  lakes  and  rivers,  which 
are  alluring  and  enticing — a  demon  in  its  blasts  of  whirling, 
blinding,  circling  sand  devils,  which  choke  and  blind  those 
who  dare  its  desolate  wind-swept  places,  appalling  in  its 
tragedies  and  yet  compelling  admiration  in  its  inexorable 
calm,  its  steady  undefeated  purposes. 

The  pulse  of  life,  the  soft  but  persistent  heart-beats  which 
one  seems  to  hear  or  feel  running  in  mystical  regularity 
among  growing,  active  things,  where  the  sap  pulses  through 
plant  life  and  makes  itself  known,  where  one  can  watch  things 
grow,  cannot  be  imagined  here. 

The  tiny  brook  stealing  its  way  timidly  among  the  ferns 
and  mosses  contains  the  embryo  force  of  murmuring  rivers, 
and  eternal,  living  activity.  Indifferent  to  all,  it  is  only 
achieving  its  purpose,  doing  its  part  in  the  great  plan  of  the 
universe. 

284 


FROM   THE   WORLD  285 

So  does  the  desert.  In  some  inexplicable  way  its  sterile 
soil,  shriveled  and  warped  by  the  sun,  dumb  in  its  stillness 
and  silence,  the  dreadful  silence  that  lies  on  the  land  where 
the  quivering  heat  waves  sting  and  burn  the  face  of  the 
intruder;  the  hot  Breath  coming  in  its  furnace-like  heat,  seems 
to  whisper  "Keep  away  if  you  would  not  share  the  eternal 
silence  and  desolation  of  my  realm." 

I  am  strengthened  in  a  way,  Aileen,  as  I  abide  here.  The 
vastness  of  the  rolling  leagues  of  emptiness,  a  visionary  pano 
rama  glowing  with  heat  and  a  grayish  whiteness,  pathless 
wastes  of  sand,  depth,  space,  mystery  and  calm, — a  calm  that 
seems  to  appeal  to  me,  that  is  companionable,  for  it  exerts 
a  powerful  influence  upon  me,  though  I  have  been  only  a 
short  time  within  its  confines — the  withered  earth,  the  rigid 
mystery  of  crumbling  sand  banks,  showing  dry  waterless 
streams  reaching  to  dimly  seen  mountains,  which  show  like 
condensed  shadows,  darkly  blue  in  places,  shading  to  lighter 
tints  in  others,  on  the  one  side;  on  the  other,  the  desert  lies 
without  boundary  lines — like  my  life,  it  seems.  Yet  toward 
the  mountains  there  is  an  uplifting  of  heights  above  the  level, 
though  promising  nothing,  they  caused  a  tremor  in  my  nearly 
hopeless  heart,  as  if  there  might  be  something  beyond  the 
desolation  spread  out  before  me. 

I  have  had  my  hours  of  desolation,  of  agony  and  soul 
torture,  and  the  hardest  of  all  is  the  thought  that  I  have  not 
deserved  it.  Like  the  One,  my  enemies  have  triumphed  for 
the  time  at  least,  through  treachery  and  deceit.  I  am  almost 
hopeless,  pride  is  lowered  to  the  very  dust,  and  life  is  a  thing 
only  to  be  endured.  The  dull  cold  hand  of  despair  has 
gripped  my  heart.  All  the  warmth  and  brightness  that  was 
once  mine  are  drowned  by  the  tears  that  fall  inward.  There 
are  wounds  made  by  words  that  are  deeper,  more  lasting 
than  any  blows  which  might  have  fallen  from  hands. 

There  is  no  music  in  my  heart  now,  only  a  sobbing  wail 
that  cries  out  against  the  injustice  of  others.  So  my  burden 
seems  indeed  greater  than  I  can  bear.  *  *  *  I 
came  here  and  found  the  desert  appealed  to  my  mood.  There 
is  something  in  the  gigantic  spaces  and  unknown  leagues  of 
emptiness  that,  while  giving  the  impression  of  unutterable 


286  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

freedom,  there  lurks  in  the  thought  that  there  also  lies  deso 
lation  and  death.  There  is  a  tragic  air  in  every  aspect  pre 
sented  by  this  region  of  green-gray  shrubbery  and  glistening 
alkali  semblance  of  earth,  where  in  its  mystery  of  mirage,  one 
sees  the  representation  of  other  sections  q>f  earth  blessed  by 
beautiful  green  things  that  a  well-watered  and  fertile  soil 
brings  forth  to  gladden  all  animate  beings. 

Here,  about  all  that  the  withered  and  wrinkled  earth  can 
do  is  to  give  an  imitation  in  her  mirage  of  things  the  observer 
has  seen  elsewhere.  I  have  found  this  arid  Arizona  even 
more  desolate  than  1  had  imagined  it  to  be.  Sterile  nature  is 
here,  in  the  white,  powdered  alkali  wastes  where  the 
sun  pours  down  its  unrelenting  rays,  beating  hotly  and 
mercilessly  upon  the  mysterious  desert  with  its  illusions  of 
sparkling  rivers,  of  forests,  its  wealth  of  color.  I  see  the 
blended  tints  of  amethyst,  mauve  and  violet  change  into  dull 
slate,  and  the  rich  ripe  apricot  yellows,  topaz,  and  chromes, 
die  into  a  pale  gray.  And  then  black  night  draws  its  veil 
of  mystery  over  the  illusions  of  the  flaming,  changing,  allur 
ing  but  dreadful  desert  stretching  on  and  on  to  the  terra 
incognita — the  Mexican  border  that  has  drawn  so  many 
within  its  death-loving  embrace. 

Amid  these  scenes  of  desolation  that  possess  a  strange  fas 
cination  for  me  I  think  of  you,  Aileen,  breathing  the  pure 
incense  laden  atmosphere  of  the  Sierras;  nature's  best  and 
most  invigorating  medicine,  which  comes  sweeping  along  a 
range  that  is  beautiful  to  you  and  to  me,  veiled  in  the  haze 
of  dreamland,  for  it  is  as  though  I  pictured  you  in  dreams. 
I  can  see  with  you  the  web-like  intricate  tracery  of  boughs 
etched  against  the  sapphire  skies.  I  hear  the  wind-sprites 
playing  soft  illusive  airs,  music  that  saddens  to  the  verge  of 
tears,  yet  with  a  sweetness  that  touches  the  soul. 

You  are  feeling,  dear  Aileen,  in  your  heart  what  the  winds 
are  whispering  to  you,  and  they  are  telling  you  that  I  am 
thinking  of  you,  my  friend  of  friends.  The  sounds  come  to 
you  like  the  "horns  of  elf  land,"  and  they  tell  you  of  my 
pain  and  desolation,  and  the  thought  that  you  understand 
and  sympathize  is  much  to  me  indeed. 

While  you  are  enjoying  the  breezes  that  come  pure  and 
clean  from  an  atmosphere  of  untrodden  snow  that  invigor- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  287 

ates  like  draughts  of  wine,  I  feel  the  hot,  scorching  winds 
that  shrivel  and  kill  while  they  caress. 

I  look  upon  the  boughs  of  the  yucca  trees  that  are  bent 
and  twisted  as  if  in  pain,  bitter  and  terrible  in  their  gaunt 
and  distorted  seenblance  of  other  trees.  They  stand 
in  gray  stubbornness,  resisting  the  blasting  heat,  the  sand 
storms  and  siroccos  that  swoop  down,  bearing  fine  particles 
of  sand  caught  in  hot  haste;  which  also  beat  and  force  me 
back  from  their  domain,  the  deathlike  region  of  waterless 
wastes.  They  catch  me  in  their  whirling  winds  and  send 
fierce  gusts  stinging  and  scorching  against  my  face,  forcing 
the  hot  breath  of  the  desert  down  my  throat.  Then  they 
clutch  and  pull  me  on  and  on  as  I  ride  over  the  ghastly 
region,  calling,  compelling  in  their  mysterious  strength  to 
their  haunts  of  oblivion,  where  remembrance  cannot  hurt  in 
the  nothingness  of  desolation  beyond. 

But  the  horrible  Something  of  the  desert  that  seemed  so 
sure  of  me  created  within  me  a  spirit  that  was  aroused  to 
combat  with  unseen  forces.  I  had  thought  of  myself  as  dead 
in  life,  but  I  found  here  an  irresistible  influence  had  taken 
possession  of  me.  I  became  aware  that  deep  within  me  were 
voices  unintelligible  at  first,  but  clamoring  for  recognition, 
and  at  last  I  understood.  They  were  the  voices  of  the  poor, 
distorted  imitation  of  trees,  of  shrubs,  gray,  almost  lifeless, 
fighting  the  pitiless  elements,  bravely  clinging  to  life,  that 
was  apparently  useless.  They  were  fulfilling  nature's  plans 
and  obeying  her  laws. 

The  desert  has  taught  me  a  lesson  I  had  not  expected  to 
learn.  Life  here  is  sustained  by  unseen  forces  and  it  seems 
as  if  they  were  doing  penance  or  expiation  terrible  and  bitter 
for  some  sin  against  nature.  While  other  fortunate  trees 
grow  in  sweet  oases,  in  the  hills,  and  valleys,  by  sea-swept 
edges  and  murmuring  rivers;  these  born  of  the  dust  of  the 
savage  fecundity  of  the  desert  exist  for  some  purpose  amid 
the  wastes  that  sear  and  crackle  under  the  sun's  fierce  heat. 

These  seem  to  have  awakened  a  kindred  feeling  in  my 
breast.  There  may  be  some  purpose  in  this  sorrow,  this 
grief — I  do  not  know.  I  look  upward  to  the  distant  moun 
tains  and  see  a  gleam  of  brightness,  and  I  think  though  my 


288  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

life  is  one  of  gloom  and  monotony,  that  though  it  is  one  of  sad 
ness,  yet  some  little  lightening  of  the  burden  may  yet  be  mine, 
when  if  I  can  reach  the  heights  up  the  steep  path  that  fate 
has  placed  in  my  way,  I  may  even  yet  attain  a  well  earned 
and  welcome  rest.  ^ 

Yet  only  a  little  while  longer  will  I  remain  here  upon  the 
cactus-haunted  mesa,  and  look  upon  the  great  gray  stretches 
of  desert  that  in  the  uncomplaining  silence  is  teaching  me  and 
helping  in  a  way.  My  weary  soul  and  tortured  heart  find 
a  strange  companionship  in  this  lifeless  desert.  For  do  I  not 
know  the  resemblance?  My  horizon  was  bounded  by  the 
great  love  that  filled  the  limited  world  for  me — limited,  for 
in  all  its  width  and  breadth,  there  was  only  the  man  whose 
love  made  my  known  world  fair  and  sweet,  only  to  leave 
it  desolate  and  seared  like  those  white  spots  amid  the  gray 
sage  brush  that  seems  to  draw  back  from  them,  though  almost 
as  white  and  lifeless  as  the  barren  soil.  Yet  they  struggle 
to  live,  and  surely  if  life  is  preferable  to  the  poor  stunted 
grasses  to  dust  and  oblivion,  it  may  hold  in  it  yet  something 
for  me. 

And  in  the  purple  distances  in  the  hidden  regions  where 
the  desert  and  sky  meet,  there  seems  to  be  peace,  and  its 
influences  are  soothing,  for  there  is  something  that  appeals 
to  me  and  my  puny  self.  My  longing  seems  so  insignificant, 
that  I  feel  more  than  ever  in  my  life  my  littleness  and  I 
feel  also  that  the  desert  has  taught  me  a  lesson,  for  it  too 
is  doing  its  part  in  the  great  plan.  1  can  only  be  patient  as 
I  may — hoping  that  all  will  be  for  the  best — that  all  this 
is  for  some  purpose,  for  some  good. 

The  yucca's  pure  white  obelisk  rears  its  head  on  the  low 
hillsides  which  rise  above  the  hot  desert  sands.  They  stand 
singly  or  in  groups  like  monuments  in  a  graveyard.  I  know 
not  how  they  draw  the  moisture  from  those  dry,  arid  hill 
sides  and  the  hot  sands  lower  down.  In  the  scorching  hot 
air,  the  yucca  and  the  bayonet  plant  thrive,  and  the  soft  white 
fragrant  flower  bells  wave  in  the  faint  breeze  pure  and  sweet 
above  the  parched  earth  from  whence  they  spring.  They 
make  me  feel  more  cheerful.  Out  of  the  Sahara  of  my  life 
may  I  not  hope  for  something  green  and  tender,  something 


FROM   THE   WORLD  289 

helpful,  hopeful  and  loving  that  will  yet  be  mine  if  I  can 
only  wait  God's  own  time  and  trust  in  his  abiding  love  and 
tenderness. 

These  lance-like  shafts  pointing  heavenward  are  nature's 
fair,  sweet  monuments,  teaching  that  above  the  grave  of  my 
buried  hopes  and  happiness  possibly  my  life  may  yet  be  filled 
with  fragrance  and  joy. 

Now  and  then  I  see  a  grave  here  and  there  by  the  way 
side  that  tells  mutely  of  some  earthworn  and  weary  creatures 
who  were  not  content  with  their  limitations,  or  like  myself 
forced  to  wander  far,  following  where  hope,  illusive  but 
sweet,  cheered  them  on  through  days,  and  in  the  night's  shad 
ows  brooded  softly  and  tenderly  over  the  tired  senses  until 
sleep — even  the  last  sleep — shut  out  the  whole  universe  and 
gave  them  heaven's  sweetest  boon — rest. 

So  I  think,  as  we  speed  along,  dear  Aileen,  for  now  I  am 
going  on  toward  Mexico,  that  they  have  found  their  limita 
tions  indeed,  and  that  the  pitiful  length  and  scant  breadth  are 
roomy  enough  now  for  the  earth-tossed  and  tired  beings,  who 
loved  freedom  and  change,  who  had  their  joys  and  sorrows, 
who  hoped,  feared  and  suffered,  laughed  and  wept.  Now 
the  few  miserable  feet  of  earth  claims  for  all  its  cycles  those 
who  died  here — the  unknown  and  unsatisfied,  who  met 
defeat  calmly  or  otherwise,  but  defeat  certainly,  else  their 
bones  might  be  in  some  spot  where  human  feet  would  pause 
and  some  hand  drop  a  flower  now  and  then. 

I  think  of  many  things  as  the  train  speeds  along,  for  I  am 
following  your  wishes  and  trying  to  find  out  if  change  will 
help  me  to  forget.  Dear  God!  If  only  I  may  forget  and 
endure  with  more  fortitude !  I  cannot,  according  to  St. 
James,  "Rejoice  when  I  fall  into  many  trials."  I  do  not 
rejoice;  I  simply  endure  them  with  what  little  strength  I  have. 

If  it  be  in  the  loneliness  of  my  secret  thoughts  and  hurts, 
my  blighted  hopes  and  ambitions,  that  I  am  tried  and  proven, 
then  perhaps  it  may  be  worth  while.  Yet  I  cannot  under 
stand  why  the  storms  of  life  are  necessary  to  mortals,  any 
more  than  they  are  to  the  flowers  and  plants  God  has  created. 

I  think  of  the  beauty  and  perfection  of  hot-house  plants 
that  are  kept  away  from  the  blight  of  the  storms,  of  scorch- 


290  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ing  winds  and  winter's  cold.  Then  I  think  of  how  the  flowers 
look  in  the  fields  out  in  the  storm  and  tempest.  Suffering  has 
not  strengthened  me.  Does  the  shaken  tree  grow  firmer  at 
the  root?  Yes,  until  an  extra  blast  sends  it  shivering  and 
broken  to  the  earth  and  its  life  is  done. 

1  think  of  myself  as  one  of  those  wind-swept  flowers  that 
I  have  often  seen  after  a  pitiless  storm  has  passed  over  the 
fields.  I  think,  too,  of  my  girlhood,  surrounded  by  an  atmos 
phere  of  purity  and  heavenly  sweetness,  of  the  tenderness  that 
hedged  me  in,  and  the  thought  comes  to  me  like  a  barbed 
arrow.  But  the  thoughts  and  the  loneliness  do  not  kill.  I 
would  they  could  and  so  end  it — only  to  die  and  forget — for- 
getfulness  and  a  dreamless  sleep,  is  all  I  ask. 

Do  you  wonder?  You  who  know  how  my  life  is  spoiled; 
how  I  am  driven  a  wanderer  from  home.  I  have  tried  to 
cultivate  a  patient  and  meek  spirit,  have  wearied  heaven 
with  my  prayers  and  tears  that  seem  useless  and  unavailing. 
Yet  at  times  I  rebel  and  wonder  why  I  am  denied  my  birth 
right,  my  inheritance,  as  a  being  created  by  a  God  of  love, 
to  go  through  the  world  starving  for  affection,  while  a  man 
lives  who  cares  nothing  for  me  and  my  helplessness.  Would 
I  might  find  some  heaven-sent  teacher  who  could  sweeten 
my  misfortune  and  make  my  life  happy  by  reason  or 
philosophy. 

I  have  no  sage  to  teach  me  wisdom,  and  I  cannot  live  and 
comply  cheerfully  with  my  wrecked  hopes  and  broken  heart. 
I  shall  have  one  consolation  that  this  agony  of  unrest  cannot 
last  long,  and  I  will  not  fear  oblivion  which  will  free  me 
from  all  life's  miseries.  I  fondly  hope  that  in  another  exist 
ence  I  may  be  happier  than  in  this  one.  If  not,  I  pray  God 
that  there  be  no  awakening  for  me. 

But  if  death  should  mean  an  intermission  of  a  life  that 
will  return  again,  what  have  I  to  hope  for  beyond  the  grave? 
I  want  no  broken  remembrances  of  this  world;  I  want  only 
rest  and  oblivion  of  all  that  has  wrought  me  woe  and  agony. 
My  whole  being  pleads  and  yearns  for  the  faith  my  mother 
had,  the  faith  she  tried  so  hard  to  instill  in  my  mind.  I 
should  like  to  feel  what  heaven  is  after  so  much  hell  on  earth. 
I  should  like  to  feel  that  I  shall  know  her  and  my  little  baby 
that  I  scarcely  remember.  I  want  to  think  that  it  would  be 


FROM   THE   WORLD  .  291 

heaven  indeed  to  hold  her  in  my  arms,  and  that  some  time, 
in  God's  own  time  and  way,  that  among  all  the  angels  and 
tiosts  of  heaven  I  may  find  my  own  dear  love,  who  will 
lave  seen  his  error  and  come  up  the  shining  way  cleansed 
and  made  pure  from  the  wrongs  he  has  done,  purified  from 
the  dross  of  the  world,  repentant  and  forgiven. 

But  I  have  not  the  faith  now,  dear  Aileen.  The  mystery 
of  life,  the  unsolved  mystery  of  death — of  the  hereafter,  if 
I  only  knew — if  only  I  could  have  something  definite,  except 
blind  faith,  which  is  only  a  belief,  or  as  we  hypnotize  our 
selves  into  the  idea,  that  the  hereafter  shall  be  as  we  hope, 
or  desire.  But  for  me  there  is  no  rent  in  the  gray  veil  that 
separates  the  hereafter  from  this  life,  whereby  I  might  have 
a  glimpse,  one  ray  of  hope,  of  comfort,  or  a  certainty  of 
what  heaven  might  be  for  me. 

As  it  is,  heaven  that  seemed  so  near  to  me  in  my  childhood, 
that  I  thought  I  could  reach  it  from  the  top  of  those  poor 
little  hills,  is  even  beyond  the  reach  of  my  feeble  prayers,  for 
they  seem  rather  to  fall  back  and  my  heart  echoes  the  cry — 
useless,  useless !  I  turn  from  the  unattainable  and  vague  to 
your  human  sympathy,  which  is  dearer  to  me  than  you  can 
ever  know.  My  heart  yearns  for  your  love. 

My  hands  are  held  your  way,  and  I  seem  to  feel  your 
strong  warm  clasp,  and  something  sweet  and  consoling  comes 
back  to  me,  for  I  feel  that  you  know,  that  you  will  help,  and 
aid  me,  if  you  can. 

Since  writing  the  above,  Aileen,  I  feel  that  I  have  been 
selfish  far  more  than  I  knew,  probably,  in  burdening  you  with 
my  sorrows.  I  shall  try  to  keep  self  more  out  of  my  letters. 
You  ask  me  to  write  of  what  I  see  and  enjoy.  I  have  not 
your  appreciation,  but  will  do  the  best  I  can  to  portray  nature 
and  her  wonders,  her  moods  as  I  see  them;  shall  try  to  occupy 
myself  as  much  as  possible  and  give  you  an  idea  how  I  am 
progressing.  I  am  going  because  you  asked  me  to  go,  and 
am  going  to  try  to  be  as  much  of  my  old  self  as  possible. 
I  must  store  my  mind,  grow  mentally  and  physically  strong 
for  the  time  when  you  will  send  for  me — see  how  hopeful 
I  grow  as  I  write — telling  me  that  I  shall  be  welcome — that 
the  past  will  be  only  as  an  evil  dream  and  that  my  love  shall 
be  my  own  again.  RUTH. 


XXXIII 

- 

"Some  say  that  when  all  the  plants  in  the  garden  of  Eden  were 
pulled  up  by  the  roots,  one  bush  the  angel  had  planted  was  left  growing 
and  it  spread  its  seed  over  the  whole  earth,  and  its  name  is  Love." 

I  am  burning  joss-sticks  and  incense  to  your  memory,  Edith 
dear,  in  El  Nido ,  my  nest,  where  I  am  spending  some  very 
quiet,  happy  days,  perched  on  a  jutting  crag  above  the  ocean 
— the  dear  old  Pacific  we  both  love,  where  the  waves  break 
upon  the  solid  rocks  far  below  me.  I  shall  not  tell  you  just 
where  I  have  built  my  nest — that  is  to  be  a  surprise  to  you 
when  you  return — birds  do  not  herald  the  fact  to  other  birds 
the  whereabouts  of  their  quiet  nests.  But  some  sweet  day  I 
hope  to  bring  you  here. 

There  are  untold  nooks  in  our  hundreds  of  miles  of  Cali 
fornia  coast  line — places  known  and  unknown;  and  suffice 
it  for  the  present  that  you  only  know  that  my  particular  nest 
lies  between  the  sea  and  the  sky.  Yet  nearer  the  sea  than 
the  heavens,  though  the  clouds  hang  so  low  they  trail 
through  the  feathery  tops  of  the  tall  pines,  which  stand  like 
grim,  immovable  sentinels,  guarding  me  on  the  landward  side. 

I  feel  the  salt  spray  on  my  face  and  the  tang  in  my  nostrils. 
My  eyes  never  tire  of  the  kaleidoscopic  effect  of  the  waters — 
the  swirl  of  the  currents  about  the  sunken  reefs,  the  sun- 
glints  on  the  waves  and  the  wind-tossed  clouds  scurrying 
across  the  blue  skies  which  are  scarcely  equaled  by  the  Italian 
skies  you  are  enjoying. 

The  cloud  shadows  chase  each  other  over  the  dimplingv 
sparkling  waters.  Bits  of  vapor  from  the  fog-land  lying  in 
the  dim  distance  are  blown  in  now  and  then,  while  away  off 
to  my  left  a  great  white,  sinuous,  living  thing,  is  creeping 
up  the  canon,  expanding,  growing,  changing  into  foaming, 
rolling  masses  of  greyish-white  that  smooth  out  the  sharp 
outline  of  crag  and  peak  in  the  deep  ravines,  leaving  a  wisp 
here  and  there  on  the  pines.  Flaunting  streamers  wave  tri 
umphantly,  then  disappear,  while  the  great  mass  pushes 

292 


FROM   THE   WORLD  293 

steadily  and  rapidly  upwards, — a  stream  that  goes  up  hill, 
that  in  its  soft  intangibleness  is  uncanny  in  its  weirdness,  yet 
resistless  as  time  itself.  Nothing  can  stay  its  progress.  The 
waves  of  the  ocean  can  only  go  so  far,  moan  and  thunder 
in  rage  as  they  do,  but  this  great  fog-stream  of  nothingness 
is  all  powerful,  and  is  like  death  in  its  coldness;  yet  though 
it  covers  like  a  pall  the  beautiful  hills  and  sparkling  waters 
at  times  and  shuts  the  sun  from  me,  I  know  that  it  cannot 
endure  except  for  a  time,  that  the  earth  and  the  heavens 
are  unchangeable — that  they  are  not  lost,  only  for  the  mo 
ment,  and  that  the  fog,  symbolical  of  death,  leaves  no  terrors 
to  those  who  understand. 

What  dreams  come  to  me,  dear,  when  nestled  in  the 
warmth  of  my  nest,  sheltered  from  winds  and  fogs.  Mem 
ory  brings  up  other  days,  other  scenes,  which  are  varied  as 
the  changing  tints  on  the  shifting  uncertain  waters.  There 
are,  notes  of  half-forgotten  songs  I  have  sung  with  you 
and  friends  we  both  love.  Both  you  and  they  are  now  beyond 
my  hand  clasp,  but  never  in  this  world,  or  the  next — if  God 
wills — beyond  the  reach  of  my  love,  the  tenderness  of  which 
is  with  you  now  wherever  you  are.  *  *  Do  you  not 

know  and  feel  how  my  thoughts  and  my  love  are  with  you, 
when  you  are  weary  with  the  toil  of  seeing  and  thinking 
of  dead  ages,  of  people  and  ruins,  that  have  passed  away 
like  the  fog-wraiths  at  noontide  ?  When  you  muse  upon  the 
complexities  of  life  and  are  wearied  to  the  verge  of  human 
endurance,  you  will  feel  that  I  am  with  you  in  spirit;  that 
I  am  asking,  entreating  you  to  come,  to  drift  back  from  the 
Old  World  to  the  New  World  of  ours  and  find  rest  with  me. 

We  would  walk  along  the  beach  and  climb  the  rugged 
rocks.  We  would  ride  or  drive  along  the  unparalleled  coast, 
where  the  hills  dabble  their  feet  in  the  water  of  the  glorious 
green-blue  ocean,  which  has  cut  the  solid  rocks  in  serrated 
ridges  and  charming  caves.  We  would  look  out  upon  the 
world  of  surging  waters  that  were — before  Nero's  Golden 
House  was  dreamed  of  on  the  Palatine,  before  Rome,  or 
your  Etruscan  relics  were,  before  the  pyramids;  even  back 
to  the  dim  beginning  of  things,  these  waters  had  their  cease 
less  ebb  and  flow,  coming  in  full  and  strong,  rising  up  to 


294  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

their  limitations;  then  back  and  back,  drawing  away  from 
the  line  in  sullen  fury,  yet  certain  and  sure  of  its  daily 
rise  and  fall,  sure  of  its  own  vast  realm  as  it  sweeps  in  angry 
roars  or  uncontrolled  fury,  or  shining  in  its  peaceful  moods 
like  a  great,  glittering,  sparkling  gem  under  the  glowing  sun. 

I  love  the  ocean  in  its  peaceful  moods,  as  I  do  when  the 
storms  gather,  and  the  winds  lash  the  limitless  sweep  of 
waters  into  a  terrible  frenzy,  when  the  waves  thunder  and 
beat  against  the  walls  that  sustain  me,  crashing  into  hollow 
nooks  and  sea-worn  caves,  bellowing  in  fury  and  unbounded 
strength.  It  seems  then  that  I  love  it  in  its  fury  more  than 
in  its  calmer  moods. 

Again  we  would  rest  among  those  gnarled  sombre  cypress 
trees  that  stand  guard  on  that  point  of  land  jutting  out  into 
the  sea — Cypress  Point.  You  remember  the  weird  magnifi 
cence  of  those  trees,  for  there  are  none  others  like  them. 
They  are  of  themselves  a  part,  like  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 
grand  and  majestic  in  their  isolation;  well  might  the  trees 
in  Eden,  "that  were  in  the  garden  of  God"  of  which  Ezekiel 
wrote — envy  them ;  only  all  the  trees  here  are  in  God's  coun 
try  and  there  is  no  envy.  All  are  blest  because  of  location. 

We  would  gather  mosses  and  frail  sweet  flowers  and  our 
own  State  flower,  the  bright  yellow  poppy,  or  eschscholtzia. 
Do  you  know  that  the  Indians  call  them  the  Great  Spirit 
Flower,  believing  that  the  golden  petals  dropping  year  after 
year  into  the  earth,  sank  and  gradually  formed  the  bright 
metal  for  which  the  strangers  were  ever  searching. 

And  while  recounting  legends  to  you,  we  would  watch 
the  changing  tints  that  charm  me  as  if  it  were  always  the 
first  time,  and  while  feasting  our  eyes  on  the  scenery,  we 
would  go  down  to  that  old,  old  Carmel  Mission,  where  the 
very  flesh  of  history  is  under  the  quaint  tiled  roof,  and  in  the 
solemn  silence  we  could  hear  its  heart-beats  echoing  up  against 
the  arches. 

Or,  as  I  have  sat  and  mused,  wondering  at  times  as  the 
sounds  of  waters  came  to  my  ears,  beating,  moaning,  calling 
in  vain  endeavor  to  be  understood  by  the  material  soul  in 
me  which  cannot  understand  the  mystery  of  the  soul  of  the 
waters,  that  have  come  in  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  during  the 


FROM   THE   WORLD  295 

cycles  dating  back  to  the  time  when  the  waters  were  divided, 
and  were  "gathered  together  unto  one  place." 

1  revel  in  the  struggle.  There  is  something  that  appeals 
to  another  phase  in  my  nature.  There  seems  to  be  something 
in  the  depths  of  my  being  that  has  slept  until  the  storms 
experienced  here  awoke  the  warring  instinct  within  me.  And 
I  feel  that  I  could  do,  and  dare  anything,  that  I  could  go 
forth  armed  for  any  conflict,  my  spirit  ready  for  any  encoun 
ter,  and  like  the  sea,  knowing  its  limitations,  yet  sure  in  its 
strength  to  conquer  in  the  end. 

So  with  the  mood  strong  upon  me  I  will  go  hence  in  a 
little  time,  prepared  to  do  and  dare  all  that  is  possible  for 
a  woman  and  a  friend  to  do. 

After  the  storm,  calmness  and  peace !  The  hills  dim  and 
gray  are  wreathed  in  foamy  white  clouds,  a  purple  haze  at 
noontide  reaching  half  way  up  their  sloping  sides,  and  as 
the  day  wears  away  a  rose  tint  at  eventide,  capped  by  a  nebu 
lous  vapor,  ghost-like  in  its  strange  configurations,  lies  back 
of  El  Nido,  making  a  strange  fascinating  picture.  And 
whichever  way  I  turn,  either  looking  on  land  or  sea,  I  see 
pictures  it  were  well  worth  your  while  to  come  and  paint. 

Here  is  the  wide  world  of  waters  with  their  unfathomed 
secrets  now  dimpling  with  delight  under  the  glittering  sun 
beams.  The  breath  of  flowers  and  pungent  odors  of  the  pine 
forests  are  mixed  and  mingled  with  the  salty  sea  air.  The 
palms  wave  in  the  breeze  and  great  live  oaks  drowse  farther 
down  there  on  the  plains,  making  great  splashes  of  shade 
where  the  cattle  rest,  or  stand  and  eat  the  tall  lush  grasses. 
I  hear  the  faint  sound  of  tinkling  bells  from  the  distant 
herds  landward,  while  far  below  me  comes  up  to  my  willing 
ears  the  music  of  the  sea,  soft,  tender,  and  strangely  sad, 
in  its  moaning  sounds,  which  move  me  and  stir  my  soul,  and 
which  cause  me  to  listen,  to  hearken  for  a  voice  from  the 
depths  that  will  tell  me  the  cause  of  its  grief. 

Then,  when  the  spirits  of  the  wind  with  deft  fingers  draw 
the  filmy  veil  of  vapor  across  the  sinking  sun,  blotting  out 
the  fair  scene,  I  light  the  lamps  of  my  nest,  draw  the  cur 
tains,  and  forget  the  world  of  mystery  and  its  moans  outside 


296 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


in  the  commonplace  but  very  reasonable  and  desirable  affairs 
of  life  and  a  good  dinner. 

"Where  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars  tell  their  beads  in 
drops  of  rain."  Indescribably  thrilling  was  the  dawn  in  all 
the  newness  of  a  day  washed  clean,  as  the  dripping  clouds 
rolled  away  and  the  morning  came  fresh  and  bright  as  the 
first  one,  when  God  said  "Let  there  be  light,"  when  the 
dawn  took  the  pale,  sombre  dying  night  in  her  fair  arms, 


CALIFORNIA  LIVE  OAK. 


flung  her  gleaming  mantle  abroad,  and  darkness,  the  dawn's 
twin  sister,  rested  in  the  warmth  and  glory,  the  brightness  and 
peace  of  the  newborn  day. 

I  felt  new  and  young  myself  as  I  stood  with  windswept 
garments  reveling  in  the  splendor  of  the  day's  awakening. 
Sails  flashed  here  and  there  like  birds  on  the  quiet  waters. 
There  are  dim  blues  and  greens  enough  to  satisfy  you;  and 
you  could  certainly  draw  your  inspirations  from  pictures  seen 
here  but  never  equaled,  as  portrayed  on  canvas.  A  witch- 
like  light,  evanescent  as  one's  pleasures,  shows  brightly  here 
and  there,  chasing  shadowy  forms  fleeting  as  they  are 
beautiful. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  297 

I  find  I  have  a  greater  reverence  for  this  world  of  ours, 
as  I  have  the  time  to  study  her  moods,  and  understand  more 
fully  the  wonderful  harmony  that  exists,  that  soothes  inhar 
monious  thoughts  and  irritating  counter  currents  of  human 
influence.  I  imbibe  the  atmosphere  of  this  place  and  feel 
strengthened  by  the  forces  of  nature  about  me.  Soothed, 
calmed,  and  quieted  by  the  peacefulness,  as  well  as  stirred 
by  nature's  fury,  each  mood  leaves  its  impressions  that  are 
to  be  remembered,  that  will  come  to  me  again  and  again, 
like  an  echo  of  music,  long  after  the  strings  are  silent.  Just 
as  the  murmuring  sounds  from  the  pine  trees  heard  in  my 
dream-haunted  slumbers  last  night  will  abide  with  me,  the 
soft,  tender  cadence  mixed  with  the  visions  seen  here  will 
never  quite  die  away,  I  think,  until  the  great  and  last  silence 
overtakes  me. 

My  mind  has  gathered  serenity  and  quiet  in  the  wide 
spaces,  aye,  wisdom  which  according  to  Socrates  "is  for  the 
silent  places,  not  for  the  mobs."  And  1  am  learning  to  agree 
with  the  things  that  are.  The  philosophy  of  contentment  I 
am  wrestling  with  now. 

I  remember  having  read  some  time  that  happiness  is  inci 
dental,  not  an  aim.  If  so,  are  we  not  all  seeking  the  inciden 
tals?  The  accessories  help  make  the  picture  and  what  would 
life  be  without  incidentals  and  accessories.  I  have  wanted 
but  one  thing  in  this  world.  I  think  therein  lies  my  happi 
ness.  I  may  yet  learn  that  it  is  not  necessary  and  that  I  am 
selfish  in  my  desires  *  *  *  * 

I  thought  when  I  wrote  the  foregoing  that  by  this  time 
you  would  be  reading  the  finished  letter.  I  gave  you  an 
idea  of  my  mornings  and  my  evenings  at  El  Nido.  After  I 
had  written  the  last  page,  I  went  through  the  beautiful  forest 
for  a  stroll.  Unconsciously  I  wandered  farther  than  usual, 
down  toward  the  valley,  lost  in  meditation  and  scarcely 
observing  where  I  wandered,  until  I  found  myself  upon  the 
highway.  A  sound  of  horses  feet  came  to  my  ears  and  almost 
instantly  a  man  on  horseback  came  around  a  bend  in  the 
road.  Can  you  not  understand  that  my  heart  almost  stopped 
beating  when  I  recognized  the  rider  was  Bert  Wilder?  He 


298  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

pulled  on  the  reins,  slowed  down  and  was  passing  by  when 
a  flash  of  recognition  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Surely  this  is   Miss  Livingston?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wilder — wherever  did  you  come  from?" 

"1  am  away  from  the  city  on  my  vacation  with  some 
friends.  We  are  in  tents  over  yonder,"  pointing  to  another 
range  of  hills  crowned  with  giant  redwood  trees.  "We  hunt, 
fish  and  are  energetic  or  lazy  as  we  choose.  I  did  not  care 
to  fish,  thought  I  would  enjoy  a  ride  this  lovely  morning. 
But  tell  me  what  are  you  doing  so  far  away  from  the  city 
and  alone  in  the  forest?" 

"Like  yourself  I  am  enjoying  an  outing.  Am  also  lazy 
or  energetic  as  I  choose.  My  home  for  the  present  is  up 
there  on  that  crag  overhanging  the  sea.  No,  you  cannot 
see  the  house  but  it  is  there  with  a  cook,  my  maid,  and  my 
aunt  for  a  chaperon." 

"And  do  you  not  feel  lonely?" 

I  felt  1  must  begin  acting;  the  staging  was  good.  It  might 
do  very  well  for  a  scene  in  Robin  Hood,  so  I  answered,  that 
I  had  begun  to  feel  restless  and  a  bit  lonely,  but  that  I  must 
try  to  be  content  as  I  had  planned  for  a  stay  of  a  month 
or  more. 

"Why,  we  had  thought  of  staying  here  three  or  four 
weeks  also,"  he  said.  Then,  after  a  pause,  asked,  "Might 
I  not  call?  I  would  love  to  see  you  and  your  home  on  the 
cliff." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,  Mr.  Wilder,  to  have  you  come— 
it  is  a  long  time  since  we  met;  we  must  renew  our  acquaint 
ance.     You  know  do  you  not  that  I  have  been  away  from 
San  Francisco  for  two  or  three  years  and  have  lost  track  of 
many  of  my  old  friends." 

I  saw  a  puzzled  look  come  into  his  eyes — he  was  wondering 
1  think  if  I  knew  anything  of  his  marriage;  he  was  not 
married  when  I  saw  him  last,  as  you  perhaps  know.  And 
I  fancy  Ruth,  in  her  first  flush  of  joy  and  subsequent  unhappi- 
ness,  had  perhaps  never  mentioned  my  name  to  him  as  I  was 
away  at  the  time.  If  so  all  the  better.  I  would  wrait  and 
allow  him  to  explain  if  he  so  desired. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  299 

"If  it  will  not  interfere  with  the  morning  ride,  lead  your 
horse  and  come  up  with  me,  as  I  am  farther  away  than  I  am 
accustomed  to  go  when  alone." 

We  loitered  on  the  way  talking  of  old  acquaintances,  of 
my  travels,  until  we  reached  the  little  house  on  the  hill. 
He  was  very  generous  in  his  praises  as  we  sat  looking  out 
over  the  waters. 

"This  is  simply  heavenly,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  could  live 
here  forever — if  only — "  he  paused. 

"I  know,"  I  replied,  "how  you  feel.  If  only  the  heart 
were  satisfied  and  had  its  desire." 

"You  understand  and  appreciate?"  he  said. 

"I  have  thought  so  when  I  sat  here  in  the  glorious  moon 
light  nights  and  watched  the  shining  silvery  path  leading 
across  the  waters.  And  in  the  forests  also,  one  needs  a  com 
panion  who  appreciates  and  sympathizes,  you  know." 

"I  wonder  why  you  are  alone — your  aunt  is  too  old  to 
accompany  you,  or  to  be  a  companion  suitable  for  your 
young  life." 

"I  know  of  no  one  here.  I  wanted  two  or  three — they 
are  somewhere  in  the  world — who  would  be  with  me  if  in 
California.  But  I  am  not  easily  suited.  Solitude  is  far 
better  for  me  than  the  company  of  people  who  cannot  enter 
into  my  moods,  or  appreciate  the  things  I  love." 

I  thought  of  you,  Edith,  and  of  poor  Ruth  also,  and  a 
sob  almost  escaped  my  lips.  My  eyes  must  have  been  rather 
moist — he  gave  a  quick  glance  of  sympathy. 

"I  think  I  know,"  he  said  softly,  then  arising  continued— 
"1  have  made  rather  a  lengthy  call  and  must  not  encroach 
on  your  time." 

It  was  near  the  luncheon  hour,  so  I  begged  him  to  remain 
for  auntie's  sake,  if  not  for  mine.  I  told  him  she  was  anxious 
to  hear  from  the  city.  She  did  not  know  Mr.  Wilder  or  his 
history — she  has  been  living  East  for  several  years,  but  knows 
a  lot  of  people  in  San  Francisco.  Needless  to  say,  he  stayed 
and  it  was  well  on  in  the  afternoon  before  he  left. 

"May  I  come  again?"  he  asked  with  the  pleading  look 
in  his  eyes  Bert  knows  so  well  how  to  use. 


300 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


"I  should  think  I  had  been  remiss  as  hostess  and  an  old 
friend  if  you  failed  to  come,  and  soon,"  I  replied  in  my 
most  persuasive  tones. 

Well,  dear,  he  has  come  and  gone  several  times,  staying 
until  auntie  has  ideas  in  her  head.  She  does  not  know  he  is 
a  married  man,  and  thinks  it  would  be  proper  for  him  to 
fall  in  love  with  me,  as  it  is  her  heart's  best  wish  to  see  me 
married.  I  have  assured  her  that  his  people  are  of  the  best, 
which  is  true,  and  that  he  has  money  enough,  which  1  do  not 
particularly  need,  as  you  know.  So  she  is  satisfied  and  not 
as  anxious  about  the  matter  in  reality  as  I  am.  I  hate  my  part, 
yet  I  must  not  falter  for  Ruth's  sake. 

I  am  off  for  a  ride  with  Bert  now.  We  are  going  down 
to  the  meadows  * 

Listen  and  you  will  hear,  with  me,  the  lark  with  the  earth 
tinge  upon  his  back  and  its  hidden  gold  upon  his  breast— 
our  California  lark — you  know  and  love  its  notes — which  is 
an  embodiment  of  song,  gladness  and  contentment.     Aloha. 
Love  for  the  day  and  hope  for  the  morrow. 

AILEEN. 


XXXIV 

"That  man  is  wise  among  us,  and  hath  understanding  of  things 
divine,  who  hath  nobly  agreed  with  necessity." 

I  have  had  a  surprise,  old  boy,  one  that  has  stirred  me 
mentally  more  than  anything  that  has  happened  for  ages.  I 
wired  Fred  to  meet  me  in  Jalapa,  as  I  had  no  desire  to  go 
back  to  the  City  of  Mexico.  He  was  a  little  late  in  coming, 
for  I  had  about  finished  viewing  the  charming  old  city  and 
the  suburbs — a  portion  of  which  I  wrote  you.  When  return 
ing  one  evening  from  a  jaunt  in  the  country,  I  found  Fred 
at  the  hotel.  He  looked  well,  but  seemed  nervous.  After 
chatting  a  while  I  said:  "You  do  not  seem  in  a  very  tranquil 
frame  of  mind.  Is  it  because  of  the  fair  senoritas?  " 

"Don't  be  a  donkey  because  you  have  been  traveling  with 
them  lately,"  he  said  rather  testily.  After  a  pause  he  con 
tinued:  "It  is  not  a  senorita  that  disturbs  the  uneven  tenor 
of  my  way — but  a  senora." 

"Oh,  Fred,"  I  broke  in,  "you  of  all  men — and  a  married 
woman,  too." 

"Yes,  and  you  of  all  men  will  be  interested  also  about  a 
married  woman  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  traveled  from 
the  City  of  Mexico  with  not  only  one  but  two  senoras  and 
one  I  shall  turn  over  to  your  tender  mercies  very  shortly — 
the  younger — I'll  be  generous,"  and  he  smiled. 

"Don't  be  mysterious.  I  have  had  a  steady  diet  of 
mysteries  for  weeks — give  me  something  not  disguised  with 
mayonnaise  dressing." 

"Well,  brace  yourself,  my  friend  Frank,  for  the  surprise 
of  the  tropics.  By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  City  of  Mexico, 
I  came  across  two  of  our  countrywomen  and  one  was  Ruth 
Wilder — your  old  friend!" 

Well,  Jack,  if  a  few  hundred  volts  of  stray  electricity  had 
struck  me  1  don't  think  the  shock  would  have  been  greater. 

"Whatever  is  Ruth  doing  down  here?"  I  asked.  "Is  it 
a  case  of  more  mystery?" 

301 


302  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Not  of  mystery  but  of  devilishness,  from  the  little  I  can 
glean  from  a  heart-broken  woman.  Ruth  has  said  but  little 
or  nothing,  I  might  say,  but  her  maid,  who  is  a  widow,  is 
not  so  secretive  and  as  she  is  rather  a  shrewd  person,  she 
understands  the  case  pretty  well  I  think.  She  has  told  me 
all  she  knows.  There  was  a  cousin  of  Wilder  who  was  at 
their  home  in  Monterey.  Her  child  was  born  there  and 
there  is  some  mystery  the  maid  cannot  fathom.  At  any  rate 
Wilder  has  cast  Ruth  adrift.  He  left  her,  and  she,  heart 
broken  and  humiliated,  is  traveling.  None  of  her  old  friends 
except  Aileen  Livingston  knows  where  she  is,  at  present. 
She  was  delighted  to  see  me  and  asked  eagerly  about  you. 
When  I  told  her  I  was  to  meet  you  here,  she  said  she  would 
come,  too,  if  I  did  not  mind — that  one  place  was  as  good  as 
another  to  her  if  only  she  could  keep  traveling.  She  is  sweet 
and  gentle  and  does  not  intrude  on  one's  time  or  patience,  so 
I  could  not  refuse.  I  hope  you  won't  care." 

"I  would  if  it  were  anyone  else,  but  it  would  be  brutal 
not  to  exert  ourselves  for  the  sake  of  that  poor  little  woman. 
1  could  never  have  believed  that  Wilder  was  such  a  beast." 

"We  will  not  discuss  him.  Get  ready  for  dinner  and  we 
will  meet  her  without  further  comment  at  present,"  replied 
Fred. 

Jack,  my  old  pal,  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  change  more 
in  two  years  than  Ruth  Wilder.  It  makes  my  fingers  crook 
with  longings  to  choke  the  man  who  could  mistreat  a  woman 
like  Ruth.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  look  of  unutterable  sad 
ness  and  woe  in  anyone's  eyes  before.  She  tries  to  bear  up 
bravely  and  when  she  attempted  to  say  something  about  not 
being  well  and  traveling  for  her  health,  I  simply  said:  "Do 
not  talk  of  it  now — I  know  all  that  is  necessary  and  what  I 
do  know  does  not  redound  to  the  credit  of  Bert  Wilder." 

"Let  us  not  talk  about  what  he  has  done.  I  want  to  for 
get  if  possible,"  she  said,  and  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

She  turned  quickly  that  I  might  not  see  them,  but  I  know 
too  well  that  she  still  loves  the  man  who  has  forgotten  his 
vows  to  her.  You  have  told  me  little  in  your  notes;  if  you 
know  more  write  me.  If  not,  forget  that  I  have  seen  her, 
or  know  that  she  is  here. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  303 

And  now  I  will  write  you  of  our  journey  to  Vera  Cruz. 

On  leaving  Jalapa  for  Vera  Cruz  I  was  delighted  to  see 
a  Pullman  car  attached  to  the  train.  I  hurriedly  stepped 
upon  the  platform,  with  pleasant  anticipations  of  a  comfort 
able  seat  in  the  car,  free  from  dust,  smoke  and  other  ills. 
A  colored  porter  met  me  at  the  door. 

"Can  we  have  a  seat  in  this  car  to  Vera  Cruz?"  I  asked. 

"No  sir.    This  car,  she  do  stay  right  here,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  if  'she  do,'  far  be  it  from  me  to  interfere,"  I  said,  so 
meekly  and  patiently  we  all  went  into  the  next  car,  which 
was  even  before  starting  comfortably  filled  with  people  and 
smoke.  Ruth  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  with  very 
good  grace.  When  I  tried  to  explain  that  there  are  no  cars 
exempt  from  smoke  except  the  Pullmans,  she  said  she  did 
not  mind,  it  was  a  new  experience;  and  added  in  a  pleasant 
vein  of  humor: 

"I  have  learned  a  good  deal  in  the  short  time  I  have  been 
traveling  in  Mexico  and  I  never  thought  I  would  like  to  be 
a  man  until  I  traveled  in  this  country.  But  to  be  a  man  and 
to  smoke  cigars  and  cigarettes,  and  have  nice,  yellow-tinted 
fingers,  to  wear  a  sombrero  and  a  look  of  felicity  that  cannot 
be  imitated — well,  the  idea  of  reincarnation  has  its  charms, 
and — beatissimi  hora — when  the  time  comes  I  may  then 
understand  and  enjoy." 

The  train  sped  on  through  a  region  clothed  in  a  gorgeous 
mantle  of  tropical  hues.  The  road  clung  to  the  mountain 
sides  and  at  times  we  seemed  to  be  floating  along  on  the 
tree-tops.  Then  we  had  glimpses  of  the  plains  checkered 
by  plantations  of  sugar-cane  and  the  fields  of  coffee,  where 
the  bananas  tossed  their  broad  leaves  in  the  winds  and  cast 
a  cooling  shade  on  the  tender  young  coffee  trees. 

We  flew  through  forests  where  the  trees  were  laden  with 
great  hanging  baskets  of  moss,  orchids  and  vines,  and  the 
bright  red  lance-like  leaves  of  the  ambitious  Castilian  corn 
which,  scorning  the  earth,  takes  root  in  some  broken  bit  of 
bark  or  crevice  in  the  mossy  old  trees,  helped  with  their 
vivid  coloring  to  make  a  picture  which  even  nature  in  her 
happiest  moods  could  not  improve. 

There  were  multitudes  of  horseshoe  curves  and  a  won 
derful  track  where  we  could  look  a  thousand  feet  below  and 


3o4  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

see  loops  and  curves  of  the  road  showing  through  the  green 
mists  of  the  trees. 

Then  I  saw  the  Sugar  Loaf — Mt.  Cerro  Gordo — where 
was  fought  one  of  the  hardest  battles  of  the  Mexican  war. 
There,  too,  were  views  reminding  me  of  the  Palisades  of  the 
Hudson.  Lower  down  I  saw  the  thatched  huts  of  the  natives, 
shaded  by  palms  and  cocoanut  trees.  We  went  over  a  vast 
tract  of  land  of  three  hundred  thousand  acres  belonging  to 
one  family. 

It  was  a  sort  of  shock  to  me  to  leave  these  scenes  of  unpar 
alleled  beauty  and  rush  out  of  the  witchery  of  waving  palms 
and  dense  foliage  to  some  yellow  sand-dunes,  where  the 
fences  are  only  sand  fences  such  as  we  have  on  the  Pacific 
coast  line,  that  keep  the  sands  from  shifting  down  and  bury 
ing  the  track. 

A  sudden  turn  and  I  saw  the  placid  Gulf  of  Mexico 
stretching  toward  the  east,  while  westward  ninety  miles 
away,  Orizaba,  seemingly  only  a  few  miles  distant,  loomed 
up  grandly  in  the  soft  light  of  the  setting  sun.  And  we  were 
in  Vera  Cruz. 

My  stay  was  short  in  this  yellow-fever-haunted  district 
which  possesses  few  attractions  for  the  average  traveler. 
There  is  a  charming  plaza  and  luxuriant  Alameda,  where 
under  the  shadows  of  the  cocoanut  trees  we  watched  the 
throngs  of  people  and  saw  the  zopilotes,  or  vultures,  those 
uncanny  birds  which  are  the  street  scavengers,  circle  and 
light  on  the  rounded  dome  of  a  church  so  close  to  the  plaza 
that  the  stench  arising  from  their  roosting  place,  even  though 
so  high  above  us,  permeated  the  atmosphere  of  the  street. 

We  visited  the  water-front  and  saw  the  great  ships  and 
the  lighthouse,  once  the  tower  of  a  church,  which  sheds  its 
light  over  the  waters  to  those  who  go  out  to  sea.  A  library 
in  a  convent  below  sheds  another  kind  of  light  on  life's 
voyagers,  both  serving  their  purposes.  I  saw  the  old  fortress 
of  San  Juan  de  Ulua,  which  is  so  constructed  that  in  case 
of  trouble  or  mutiny  among  the  prisoners,  it  can  be  flooded 
in  a  few  minutes. 

The  Alameda,  the  curio  stores  and  the  mosquito  bites  I 
remembered.  The  thick  netting  over  the  beds,  heavier  than 


FROM   THE   WORLD  305 

cheese  cloth,  was  endurable  for  a  time,  but  I  wondered  what 
it  would  be  to  sleep  there  in  July.  I  cared  not  to  tarry  long 
in  this  city,  founded  by  Cortez  in  1519,  which  was  about 
thirty-two  years  after  Americus  Vespucius  landed  at  Tampico, 
further  up  the  coast,  whose  name  the  New  World  bears. 

The  dread  of  mosquito  bites,  and  the  longing  for  pure, 
clear  water  filled  me  with  a  desire  to  leave  the  city,  where 
pure  air  is  unknown  and  everything  drinkable  comes  in 
bottles.  The  array  of  bottles  standing  so  thickly  on  the 


f/ "o  an/at /i  at  Ate  me  da.  Ven-firo*.  .4»V/: 


FOUNTAIN"    AT    ALAMEDA,    VERA    CRUZ,    MEXICO. 

table  in  the  dining-room  of  the  hotel  was  startling  when 
we  were  ushered  in.  At  first  glance  it  seemed  more  like  a 
bowling  alley  than  a  dining-room,  but  I  learned  later  that 
the  local  water  is  considered  unfit  for  use.  So  I  folded  up 
my  conscience,  labeled  it  good  intentions,  and  ate  and  drank 
that  which  was  given  me,  unquestioned,  as  a  grim  spectre 
in  yellow  haunted  me,  for  yellow  fever  stalks  abroad  ever  on 
the  alert  for  victims. 

Out  under  the  pitying  stars,  later  on,  I  looked  up  and  saw 
the  Milky  Way,  and  sighed  for  a  pint  of  celestial  cream. 
It  would  have  been  worth  all  the  bottled  liquids  in  Vera 
Cruz,  but,  being  so  near  sea  level,  and  the  stars  so  far  away, 


306  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  stifled  my  yearnings  and,  retiring,  pulled  the  drapery  of 
the  shrouded  three-quarter  bed  closer  about  me  and  forgot 
all  things  for  a  minute. 

At  least  it  seemed  only  a  minute  to  me,  when  I  was  awak 
ened  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by  a  bare-footed  barbarian, 
who  laid  his  hand  flat-heeled  as  he  banged  upon  the  door 
with  it.  My  decadent  city  intellect  could  not  reason  why  it 
was  always  necessary  to  start  from  every  place  to  go  any 
where  or  nowhere  in  Mexico,  in  the  night  time,  or  at  the 
traditional  hour  which  is  darkest  just  before  dawn.  Breakfast 
is  unknown  at  the  caravansaries  in  the  early  hours,  so  one 
must  take  chances,  and  it  is  usually  an  even  toss  up  of  "heads 
you  win  and  tails  I  lose." 

A  wise  boy  carried  my  grip  to  the  station  two  blocks  away, 
but  he  took  me  twice  around  one  block  and  charged  a  dollar. 
However,  he  was  kind  enough  to  show  me  a  restaurant.  It 
was  so  crowded  that  after  waiting  half  an  hour  and  getting 
nothing,  he  informed  me  I  must  not  wait  longer  if  I  desired 
a  seat  in  the  cars,  and  so  hurried  me  away. 

I  barely  succeeded  in  securing  a  seat  before  the  train  pulled 
out,  with  me  a  most  willing  passenger,  though  fully  conscious 
of  the  aching  void  that  was  eased  a  trifle  later  on,  for  there 
are  always  fruits  of  some  kind  sold  at  the  larger  stations. 

My  last  remembrance  of  Vera  Cruz  as  we  sped  away  in 
the  dim  light,  is  of  the  zopilotes  fighting  with  a  driver  of  a 
meat  wagon  for  a  portion  of  his  load.  These  street  cleaners 
or  scavengers  do  not  belong  to  any  union.  They  are  at  work 
through  all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and  also  those  of  the  night 
when  they  can  see.  There  is  no  every-other-day  sweep-up  for 
them.  Their  lives  are  valued  at  five  dollars  each,  or  until 
recently  a  fine  of  that  amount  was  imposed  upon  anyone 
killing  a  bird.  Faithful  in  their  work,  their  bills  are  small, 
even  if  the  scents  are  numberless. 

Back  toward  the  City  of  Mexico  I  passed  over  a  different 
road  and  one  that  was  a  marvel  of  skill  after  the  first  forty 
miles  of  plain  with  nothing  attractive  but  the  view  of  Orizaba. 
Then  we  entered  a  picturesque  country. 

Here,  as  in  the  region  of  Jalapa,  one  revels  in  tropical 
vegetation,  fields  of  sugar-cane  and  coffee  groves.  The  chat- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  307 

tering  monkeys  and  screaming  parrots  that  once  infested  this 
region  are  rarely  seen  now,  the  shrieking  engines  and  roar 
of  the  trains  being  too  much  for  them  to  endure.  We  crossed 
massive  bridges  and  whizzed  through  canons  luxuriant  in 
tropical  splendor. 

At  Cordoba,  sixty  miles  from  the  Gulf,  the  finest  fruits 
in  Mexico  were  offered  for  sale  at  the  station.  There  were 
guavas,  pineapples,  bananas,  oranges,  pomegranates  and  chiri- 
moyas — the  fruit  of  the  angels — that  was  not  quite  to  my 
material  taste,  but  the  oranges  I  found  delicious,  as  were 
also  the  bananas.  Cordoba — meaning  the  tropics,  or  the 
border  of  the  Tierra  Caliente — is  too  near  Vera  Cruz  for  a 
health  resort,  but  Orizaba  has  a  fine  climate,  is  charmingly 
situated  and  being  above  the  hot  lands  is  a  resort  for  the 
sick  and  well  from  Vera  Cruz. 

After  Cordoba  we  climbed  upward  through  the  wonderful 
Metlac  Canon,  where  are  some  thrilling  curves,  breath-taking 
chasms  and  curved  iron  bridges,  until  we  stopped  at  Orizaba, 
a  favorite  resort  at  any  season  of  the  year.  The  name 
signifies  "Joy  in  the  Water,"  and  the  streams  and  cascades 
show  it  is  appropriate  as  well  as  poetical.  I  too,  found  joy 
in  the  water  when  I  had  bathed  and  had  drunk,  for  the  water 
was  good,  and  that  was  another  cause  for  rejoicing. 

1  found  here  one  of  the  best  hotels  in  the  Republic  with 
delicious  French  cooking,  and  the  "habitaciones  comodas  y 
ventiladas,"  otherwise  good  rooms  and  well  ventilated,  were 
comfortable  indeed  in  comparison  to  some  of  the  cell-like 
rooms  I  had  found  elsewhere,  with  bare  tiled  floors  and  mat 
tresses  and  pillows  only  a  trifle  softer  than  the  floors. 

I  could  well  understand  this  city  being  a  favorite  resort 
for  the  enervated  people  coming  up  from  Vera  Cruz.  The 
situation  is  fine  and  the  clear  running  streams,  and  clean 
pretty  little  city  are  worth  a  visit  be  one  sick  or  well.  History 
tells  us  that  it  existed  before  Cortez  came.  Clinging  now 
as  then  on  a  terrace  above  the  "hot  lands,"  amid  ferns  and 
flowers,  it  rests  peacefully  among  the  sheltering  trees  and 
gives  of  its  best  to  the  world-weary  and  the  worn. 

The  mind  of  most  of  us  partakes  of  the  witchery  of  the 
surroundings  and  here  I  felt  it  keenly.  The  moonlight,  the 


3o8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

stars,  the  fragrance,  the  harmony  that  came  from  a  strange 
language  interwoven  with  music  and  stringed  instruments, 
filled  the  air  with  a  sense  of  rest  and  a  charm  unknown  and 
unfelt  in  our  colder  climate.  Here  the  balmy  airs  are  always 
blowing  cool  and  sweet  above  that  sheet  of  placid  water  so 
far  below,  flashing  in  the  summer  sun.  The  feathery  palms 
wave,  the  brooks  splash  merrily  in  their  rocky  beds,  the  sky 
is  bright  with  changing  hues,  beautiful  in  the  mystery  of 
blended  colors,  and  cloud  shapes  that  take  form  and  float 
away,  sailing  over  the  glistening  snow  fields  of  those  mighty 
peaks,  away  from  a  troubled  world  of  care  and  sorrow. 

The  cares  of  life  and  its  environments  slipped  away  from 
me  as  I  dreamed  away  a  few  blissful  hours  amid  the  tropical 
splendors.  I  imbibed  the  true  spirit  of  the  country  and  was 
content  to  be  idle  and  the  place  will  haunt  me  for  many  moons 
yet  to  come. 

When  I  journeyed  from  the  beautiful  city  a  succession  of 
exquisite  pictures  lay  spread  out  before  me.  There  were  val 
leys  and  mountains  that  from  Orizaba's  eternal  snows  ranged 
down  in  fairy-like  undulations  in  the  dim  distance;  from  the  . 
cold  death-like  stillness  of  that  white  crest,  lower  and  lower 
in  mystical  waves,  these  billows  of  earth  and  stone  receded 
until  they  reached  the  warmth  of  the  Tropics,  lower  still 
until  in  the  far  east  dying  in  a  fairy-like  mist  that  seemed  to 
weld  together  the  earth  and  sky,  I  knew  lay  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico. 

Fair  as  was  the  vision  I  turned  my  face  westward  toward 
the  dear  old  Pacific.  We  were  speeding  on  toward  the  City 
of  Mexico,  through  the  exquisite  La  Joya  Valley,  where  were 
vast  chasms  and  precipices,  and  narrow  shelves  where  the  train 
crept,  along  the  Barranca  del  Infernillo,  where  the  waters 
formed  their  self-hewn  channel  hundreds  of  feet  below  the 
railroad.  I  looked  upon  aerial  hills  and  vales  and  illimitable 
waters,  and  on  to  the  utmost  verge  where  earth  and  sky  were 
wedded  and  up  to  the  mountains  miles  in  height,  and  from 
a  dazzling  snowy  ice  field  I  saw  a  detached  bit  of  ice  glint 
in  the  sun  which  fell  like  a  flashing  star  into  the  mists  below. 

There  were  long  detours,  sharp  grades,  curves  and  breath 
taking  chasms  until  I  feared  we  would  plunge  into  some  of 


FROM   THE   WORLD  309 

those  fearful  depths,  and  the  thought  came  over  me  of  dying 
in  a  foreign  land,  especially  where  one's  remains  are  subject 
to  eviction  for  non-payment.  It  is  a  good  country  to  travel 
in,  but  I  felt  I  would  rather  die  in  my  own,  and  the  lines 
came  to  me : 

"Better  when  work  is  passed 

Back  into  dust  dissolved,  and  help  a  seed 

Climb  upwards," 

than  to  be  as  naught  elsewhere,  especially  as  naught  here.  I 
did  not  want  my  dust  mixed  with  the  chocolate  colored  ashes 
of  these  natives,  nor  did  I  want  to  help  sprout  tobacco  or 
pulque  plants,  and  thereby  encourage  evils  I  fain  would  exter 
minate.  I  would  far  rather  when  I  return  to  dust  enrich  my 
own  acacia  trees  than  be  only  a  weed  to  end  in  smoke. 

But  I  was  soon  shunted  from  the  Tropics  and  the  little 
towns,  sleeping  in  the  Tierra  Caliente,  that  seem  centuries 
away  from  the  world  we  know.  Still  on  and  from  the  higher 
hills  we  passed  into  the  temperate  zone  of  the  Mexican 
plateau,  and  I  found  myself  soothed  and  in  a  more  congenial 
frame  of  mind,  as  the  train  rushed  into  the  City  of  Mexico, 
perfectly  satisfied  with  my  visit  to  the  south  lands,  and  felt 
that  I  was  ready  for  the  homeward  journey. 

As  the  birds  turn  northward  in  springtime,  or  the  weary 
horse  awakens  to  renewed  energy  the  moment  his  head  is 
turned  toward  home,  so  I,  now  that  my  migratory  instincts 
are  satisfied,  gladly  turn  my  face  to  my  own  country. 

A  perfect  jangle  of  emotions  were  mine  as  I  left  the  old 
city.  There  has  been  so  much  that  was  strange  and  awe- 
inspiring — so  much  that  was  soul-wearying,  and  also  much 
that  was  unpleasant.  Hardships  and  fatigue  have  been  mine, 
but  all  were  worth  it  a  thousand  times  over. 

This  land  that  is  full  of  marvel  and  of  mystery,  has  left 
unforgettable  impressions  that  are  pleasant,  instructive,  satis 
fying,  and  the  exquisite  pictures  of  the  Tropics,  the  mesas 
and  mountains,  the  life  of  a  people  so  different  from  ours, 
are  to  be  remembered  with  pleasure  and  delight. 

I  shall  recall  the  sanctuaries  of  science  and  sacredness  as 
well  as  the  old  shrines  aureoled  with  mystical  associations  and 
remember  the  rose-red  teocallis  that  lie  in  the  earth,  which  are 


3io  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

now  the  foundation  for  the  Cross  of  Christianity — the  Cross 
that  was  put  up  for  those  dear  old  pagans,  who  could  not 
at  first  understand — do  their  descendants  now,  I  wonder? — • 
the  symbol  of  peace  that  was  raised  by  the  cruel  soldiers  oi 
the  Conquistadors.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  same  Cross  oi 
Christ  that  was  created  over  fallen  temples  and  sacrificia' 
altars  existed  centuries  before  Cortez  planted  it  upon  the  salt- 
sown  foundation  soil  of  the  Teocalli.  And  before  the  Aztecs 
ceased  the  practice  of  human  sacrifice,  the  Cross  was  carvec 
upon  temples  at  Palenque.  Among  the  ruins  of  Nachan,  a 
city  existing  two  thousand  years  ago  which  was  explorec 
in  1787,  in  a  temple  the  Cross  was  found. 

There  were  temples  and  sanctuaries  for  their  gods,  and  the 
mingling  of  pagan  rites  with  the  emblem  of  Christianity  gives 
food  for  thought.     Out  of  the  darkness  of  past  ages  into 
the  peaceful  present,  where  each  one  is  allowed  to  worship 
according  to  his  understanding,  one  cannot  help  but  rejoice 
that  the  abattoirs  of  the  gods  who  conquered  and  sacrificec 
at  will,  through  their  agents,  whose  worship  was  gore,  who 
delighted  in  the  cutting  and  slashing  of  victims,  whose  heart 
were  torn  from  the  quivering  bodies — are  things  that  belong 
to  a  past  that  is  gone  forever. 

The  temples  and  images  of  these  old  pagans  impress  tli 
traveler  who  cares  to  delve  into  the  buried  past,  and  sorm 
things  will  live  in  memory.     My  mind  will  often  hark  back 
to  places  that  impressed  me    most — Cholula,    Mitla — and 
some  detached  evidences  of  a  strange  people,  and  a  strange 
religion  that  worshipped  distorted  idols,  beasts  and  reptiles. 

I  will  not  soon  forget  a  ravine  where,  amid  a  tangled 
growth  of  wood,  the  coffee  trees  and  mangoes  inter 
locked  their  boughs,  the  dense  foliage  shutting  out  the  sun 
shine,  I  was  shown  a  large  boulder  whereon  was  carved  a 
reptile.  It  lay  sprawled  over  the  immense  stone,  and  was 
carved  so  faithfully  that  the  scales  upon  the  body  seemed 
real,  and  the  claws  on  the  feet,  the  wide  open  mouth,  were 
horribly  realistic.  Some  mystic  signs  were  engraven  there 
also.  The  sun-glints  played  upon  the  polished  green  leaves 
and  made  the  red  coffee  berries  seem  brighter.  It  was  a 
beautiful  bright  world  above,  but  below  this  radiance  were 


FROM   THE   WORLD  311 

the  green  and  mold  of  the  damp  earth,  spread  upon  the 
boulder,  and  the  reptile  in  the  darkness,  representing  the 
shadows  and  gloom  that  speak  of  an  age  and  a  people  who 
worshipped  there.  These  are  impressions  that  haunt  me,  and 
make  me  all  the  more  thankful  that  I  am  living  in  the 
twentieth  century. 

The  remnants  of  past  ages  make  Mexico  interesting,  but 
do  not  interfere  with  or  stay  the  hand  of  progression.  Con 
ditions  that  are  for  the  betterment  of  all,  especially  the  poor, 
are  in  evidence.  And  looking  hopefully  toward  the  pure 
sapphire  skies  and  out  over  the  boundless  mesas,  I  see  in 
fancy  the  stern  fingers  of  the  cactus  pointing  in  grim  silence 
heavenward,  seeming  to  say :  Look  and  hope.  And  a  gaunt 
figure  with  bare  brown  legs  like  some  great  bird,  stands  out 
in  bold  relief  with  a  red  scrape  about  his  shoulders.  He 
takes  the  straps  from  his  forehead,  throws  down  his  heavy 
burden,  and  raises  his  face  to  the  skies,  in  unconscious 
entreaty,  waiting  for  something — he  knows  not  what.  Heaven 
grant  that  the  present  century  may  bring  relief  and 
lighten  his  load  of  toil  and  ignorance.  *  *  My  patient 
Jack,  I  am  sending  this,  my  last  letter,  as  I  am  speeding 
homeward  toward  you.  I  had  letters  in  Vera  Cruz  which 
caused  me  to  change  my  plans.  I  will  not  go  to  the  Orient 
as  I  expected.  Fred  has  decided  to  go  on  from  Vera  Cruz 
via  Cuba  or  whatever  route  pleases  him  and  Ruth.  I  may 
go  later.  It  is  not  business  that  is  bringing  me  back,  so  you 
need  not  smile.  There  are  matters  wherein  other  people  are 
interested  which  demand  my  immediate  attention.  Fred  and 
Ruth  seem  to  be  very  companionable  and  I  fancy  they  will 
enjoy  being  together,  both  having  felt  the  pangs  of  unrequited 
love,  and  so  will  find  a  comfort  in  each  other's  society. 

As  for  me,  I  shall  see  you  very  soon,  and  I  may  tell  you 
more  than  you  now  know,  but  1  may  not  find  you  in  the 
mood  to  listen.  We  shall  see.  But  at  least  you  and  I  can 
talk  sometimes,  while  we  smoke  our  pipes,  of  my 
visit  here.  I  know  I  shall  want  to  tell  you  of  places  visited 
in  the  land  of  the  Toltecs  and  Aztecs,  places  and  pictures  that 
have  a  charm  of  their  own  of  which  I  have  not  written — of 
peaceful  skies,  of  shining  lagoons  and  wide  illimitable  plains; 


3i2  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

of  tropical  verdure,  of  twilights  and  the  glamor  of  music, 
and  the  fragrant  balmy  airs;  of  nights  that  were  radiant  with 
glittering  stars  glimmering  in  the  quiet  waters  which  gave 
back  the  star-glints  that  shone  in  the  deep  blue  vault  above  our 
dear  old  world,  for  in  the  halls  of  retrospection  memory  will 
revel  in  scenes  that  are  unfading,  that  will  hold  me  in  silken 
meshes,  for  without  remembrance,  as  the  shadows  longer 
grow,  and  life  lengthens,  travel  were  useless,  unprofitable  and 
in  vain. 

FRANK. 


XXXV 

"Lead    me,    O    Zeus,    and   thou,    Destiny,   whithersoever   ye    have 
appointed  me  to  go  and  may  I  follow  fearlessly." 

The  plot  thickens.  "On,  ye  brave."  Edith,  I  am  riding 
on  the  crest  of  a  wave  of  excitement,  and  feel  sometimes  as 
I  have,  when  riding  my  horse  at  his  best  speed,  along  the 
beautiful  roads  with  the  wind  blowing  strong  against  me, 
while  I  reveled  in  the  bracing  air,  matching  my  strength 
against  the  strong  blast. 

I  have  been  back  in  dear  old  San  Francisco  for  some  time 
and  have  seen  Bert  Wilder  quite  often.  He  is  indefatigable 
in  his  efforts  to  see  me.  I  cannot  allow  him  to  come  to  the 
house  too  often.  He  has  confided  in  me  and  finds  me  more 
than  kind  and  sympathetic.  You  understand?  The  same 
worn-out  platitudes,  that  have  served  from  Rameses  down 
and  deserve  to  be  embalmed  or  cremated,  and  retired  to  an 
obscure  niche  in  some  remote  Columbarium,  have  been  given 
me.  He  has  told  me  that  Ruth  became  jealous  without  cause 
because  he  was  kind  to  a  widowed  cousin  of  his  and  left  him; 
that  she  has  refused  to  have  any  communication  with  him 
and  that  in  order  to  permit  her  to  have  her  desire  granted  he 
will  get  a  divorce  on  the  ground  of  desertion;  that  he  could 
not  bring  his  mind  to  do  it  even  for  her  sake  until  recently, 
for  he  hated  publicity  of  the  kind. 

Oh,  Ananias,  reincarnated!  That  I  should  listen  and  be 
almost  persuaded!  Edith,  this  man  is  a  marvel.  He  will 
sit  and  tell  me  things  1  know  without  doubt  to  be  absolutely 
false.  Yet  so  strong  is  his  personality,  his  hypnotic  power 
over  those  he  comes  in  contact  with,  that  everything  seems 
plausible.  In  fact,  I  believe  he  hypnotizes  himself,  and 
actually  thinks  that  he  is  the  injured  person.  Did  I  not  know 
Ruth — know  the  whole  story — I  would  be  inclined  to  doubt 
her. 

But  as  it  is,  I  am  more  interested  in  this  affair  than  any 
thing  heretofore  in  my  short  but  eventful  life.  So  I  am  a 

313 


3 14  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

docile  pupil — I  am  learning  something  new  all  the  time.  The 
study  of  a  unique  character  is  new  and  I  am  trying  a  little 
of  the  magnetic,  hypnotic  business  myself.  I  am  going  on 
the  homeopathic  principle  that  like  cures  like.  But  of  the 
night-blooming  cereus  blossom  of  his  love — which  is  his  for 
the  moment— I  have  no  particle  of  sympathy  or  patience.  I 
think  of  Ruth  and  wonder  how  she  can  care,  but  will  not 
discuss  the  mystery  of  mysteries — a  woman's  heart — which 
only  a  woman  and  God  can  understand. 

In  order  to  facilitate  matters  I  have  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
and  arranged  a  trip  to  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado 
with  some  friends  and  have  asked  Bert  Wilder  to  accompany 
me.  I  told  him  I  needed  a  delightful  companion  like  him 
self  to  make  the  excursion  all  I  had  imagined  it  could  be. 
He  took  the  bait  like  a  hungry  trout. 

It  was  rather  early  in  the  spring  for  visitors,  but  the  time 
suited  me  better  all  things  considered  than  later  on.  So  we 
went  on,  a  merry  party,  changing  cars  from  the  main  line 
to  the  branch  road  that  took  us  to  the  Canon.  As  we  sped 
on  toward  our  goal  a  magnificent  sunset  colored  the  sky,  that 
put  to  shame  all  the  pitiful  efforts  of  artists  who  try  to  put 
upon  canvas  the  splendid  colors  that  nature  blends  into  won 
drous  beauty.  Then  the  sun  sank  and  night  cold  and  dreary 
set  in,  as  we  journeyed  on  over  a  slightly  rolling  mesa  with 
no  suspicion  of  the  Canon  we  were  eager  to  see. 

In  the  darkness  we  stopped  and,  descending  from  the  cars, 
were  piloted  some  distance  by  a  boy  with  a  lantern.  There 
was  snow  in  patches  on  the  ground  and  the  wind  was  biting 
cold,  for  we  were  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  A  door 
was  opened  and  we  found  ourselves  ushered  into  a  quaint  log 
cabin  inn  with  wide-open  fireplaces  and  great  blazing  pine 
logs,  with  comfort  radiating  from  them  and  a  warm  welcome 
from  the  bright  flames.  We  found  our  rooms  well  warmed 
from  the  chilly  night  air,  and  a  genial  host  and  clerk  who 
seemed  to  anticipate  our  wants  when  they  announced  that 
the  evening  meal  was  ready. 

Later  on  I  was  asking  the  clerk  questions  concerning  the 
Canon,  when  he  said: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  315 

"Here  is  a  man  who  can  tell  you  better  than  anyone  else 
what  you  desire  to  know."  He  spoke  to  a  hardy  old  man 
in  picturesque  attire,  mentioned  his  name  and  I  said : 

"I  know  who  you  are,  and  my  trip  would  have  been  incom 
plete  had  I  missed  you." 

I  found  him  peculiar  and  imaginative  beyond  the  bounds 
of  reason  concerning  himself  and  his  adventurous  life  in  the 
Canon,  where  he  has  lived  for  over  nineteen  years.  He  told 
me  of  his  love  for  it;  that  it  was  his  home  and  had  been 
when  it  was  practically  unexplored.  The  snows  that  were 
heaped  up  in  patches  on  the  ground  were  no  whiter  than 
the  beard  that  covered  the  old  pioneer's  face.  But  the  fires 
of  an  unquenchable  youth  shone  in  his  eyes.  It  was  worth 
while  to  come,  if  only  to  hear  this  man  talk  of  the  Canon, 
of  its  grandeur,  and  its  fascinations  that  have  taken  posses 
sion  of  him  or  held  him  enthralled  for  nearly  twenty  years. 
It  has  so  filled  his  life  that  he  cares  for  but  little  else. 

He  told  me  stories  of  the  cliff-dwellers,  of  their  houses, 
barnacled  like  swallows'  nests  in  inaccessible  places,  of  his 
own  cabin  on  the  rim,  of  the  incomparable  views  that,  in  all 
the  years  he  had  lived  there,  were  always  a  glorious  mystery 
and  each  day  fresh  with  the  charm  of  a  new  discovery. 

It  was  not  what  he  said  or  the  manner  of  description,  but 
he  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  almost  a  part  of  this 
incontestable  marvel  of  God's  footstool.  I  was  so  carried 
away  by  his  description  of  the  Canon  that  I  agreed  to  go 
down  into  the  chasm  on  the  morrow.  The  old  guide's  enthu 
siasm  made  it  seem  but  a  trifle  as  we  all  sat  chatting  cozily  in 
front  of  some  great  blazing  pine  knots  in  the  open  fireplace. 
Later  on,  when  sleep  stole  over  my  weary  senses,  a  sort  of 
dread  seemed  to  possess  me  at  intervals  when  half  conscious, 
and  I  wished  that  I  had  looked  down  upon  the  trail  before 
arranging  for  the  journey. 

A  cry  of  "Fire !"  awoke  me  to  something  real  and  more 
dreadful  than  imaginary  things.  It  was  as  dark  as  the  tra 
ditional  Egypt,  and  freezingly  cold,  but  the  thought  of  fire 
at  the  hotel,  where  every  drop  of  water  is  hauled  from  Wil 
liams,  sixty-five  miles  away,  was  terrifying.  I  sprang  out  of 
bed,  unlocked  the  door,  and  was  unceremoniously  thrust  back 


316  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

by  a  stoical  Japanese  boy  who  said,  in  a  lower  tone,  "Fire," 
and  at  once  proceeded  to  build  a  brisk  fire  in  the  small  stove, 
while  another  boy  going  through  the  halls  crying  "Bre'fus," 
gave  me  a  clear  understanding  of  the  situation.  I  nestled 
back  in  bed,  and  waited  for  the  second  call  for  breakfast,  and 
for  daylight. 

In  all  the  attempted  descriptions  of  the  Grand  Canon,  no 
one,  I  fancy,  Edith,  has  ever  written,  no  matter  how  vividly 
or  enthusiastically,  even  a  portion  of  what  was  in  his  soul. 
I  know  1  felt  there,  as  I  have  elsewhere,  the  futility  of  an 
attempted  faithful  description. 

I  have  seen  the  best  and  all  of  the  most  wonderful  scenery 
of  our  own  country,  and  have  also  seen  the  wonders  of  the 
Old  World.  I  have  stood  upon  the  top  of  Cheops,  Egypt's 
grandest  pyramid;  have  looked  down  from  the  dizzy  heights 
of  the  Jungfrau  and  Mt.  Blanc,  in  Switzerland,  and  have 
trodden  the  snow  fields  far  above  the  picturesque  fiords  that 
nestle  among  Norway's  mountains.  I  have  wandered  among 
the  ruins  of  Thebes  and  Baalbek  and  viewed  from  the  summit 
of  the  Acropolis  at  Athens,  Parnassus'  snowy  heights, 
Hymettus  and  Marathon  in  the  distance.  1  have  also  stood 
upon  the  verge  of  Glacier  Point  in  Yosemite  and  Inspiration 
Point  in  the  Yellowstone  Canon;  have  mused  upon  Calvary, 
Gethsemane  and  the  Mount  of  Olives ;  yet,  nothing  I  have  ever 
seen  impressed  me  in  the  way  this  Canon  did.  It  is  so  unlike 
anything  else  I  had  ever  beheld.  How,  then,  would  it  be 
possible  for  me  to  give  you  more  than  an  idea  of  this,  the 
most  wonderful  in  its  way  of  anything  the  world  possesses? 

Here  may  be  seen  or  fancied  all  the  beautiful,  grand  or 
appalling  things  of  the  whole  world.  All  the  best  in  sculpture, 
painting  or  in  architecture  cannot  compare  with  what  God 
the  Great  Creator,  Architect,  and  Builder,  put  in  this 
wonderful  chasm.  Here  color  reigns  supreme,  and  holds 
sway  as  it  does  in  Yellowstone  Park,  only  in  this  Canon  the 
distances  are  so  great  that  color,  however  intense,  is  softened 
or  lost  in  the  purple  immensities  of  air. 

In  the  early  morning  I  stood  in  front  of  the  hotel  on  the 
rim  of  the  chasm  that  dropped  beneath  my  feet  down  and 
down  for  four  thousand  three  hundred  feet,  and  from  the 


FROM   THE   WORLD  317 

fascinating,  yet  terrifying  depths,  1  looked  far  across  to  the 
mystic  chrome-tinted  brink,  thirteen  miles  opposite  from 
where  I  stood.  Shafts  of  light  pastelled  the  sky,  and  below 
those  paths  of  light  were  masses  of  vapor,  soft  and  beautiful. 
Farther  down  the  shadows,  deepening  into  dark  and  dreadful 
depths,  gave  me  some  shivering,  uncertain  moments. 

But  we  had  made  arrangements  the  night  before  to  go 


GRAND    CANON. 

down.  Bert  was  especially  solicitous  and  saw  the  guide  about 
the  best  horses  and  the  smaller  details.  Had  I  waited  until 
morning  I  might  not  have  had  the  courage  to  go  down  into 
those  awful  depths;  but  am  rather  certain  the  result  would 
have  been  the  same.  1  usually  have  the  courage  of  my  con 
victions  and  have  never  been  called  cowardly  or  addicted  to 
nerves. 

A  hurried  breakfast  and  I  soon  found  myself  attired  in  a 
divided  skirt  and  anchored  on  the  back  of  a  mule,  following 


3i8  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

the  guide  with  Bert  close  beside  me  down  into  the  Canon. 
The  trail  was  worse  than  any  I  had  ever  experienced.  The 
trail  up  to  the  Mer  de  Glace,  in  Switzerland,  and  the  trails 
in  Yosemite  were  not  so  dangerous,  for  here  the  trail  was 
icy  and  covered  with  snow  a  part  of  the  way  down.  A  single 
false  step  or  slip,  and  I  knew  too  well  what  the  consequences 
would  be.  It  took  the  whole  day  to  make  the  trip.  The  trail 
winds  by  tortuous  and  devious  ways  and  turns  for  five  miles 
into  the  perilous  depths. 

Tortured  by  aches  and  pains,  fears  and  misgivings,  and 
then  in  moments  of  rapture  forgetting  all  save  the  sublime, 
the  solemn  and  grand  scenes  that  met  my  eyes  at  every  turn, 
raised  me  to  such  heights  of  enthusiasm  that  life  seemed  of 
but  small  concern.  There  is  such  a  bewildering  confusion 
of  strange,  unique,  and  appalling  wonders  in  those  depths, 
where  the  spirit  of  cosmic  tragedy  holds  sway  and  an  atmos 
phere  of  awe,  and  one  of  woe  also,  sends  a  thrill  of  pain 
through  one's  being.  It  was  a  day  that  will  be  remembered 
while  reason  holds  sway,  and  I  shall  be  thankful  all  my  life 
that  1  had  the  courage  to  make  the  trip  down  into  the  chasm. 

I  stood  on  a  shelf  hanging  over  the  Colorado  River  after 
we  had  lunched  and  rested  from  the  ride,  and  looked  into 
the  abysses  half  veiled  in  a  thin  blue  haze  that  extended  on 
and  on,  deepening  away  until  lost  in  the  distance.  Then  I 
glanced  up  to  those  vast  walls  where  were  terraces  and  pin 
nacles,  wave  upon  wave  of  solidified  color,  reaching  out  into 
boundless  space — a  mighty  ocean  caught  in  its  turbulent  fury 
and  stayed  by  invisible  forces. 

All  the  exquisite  colors  of  the  rainbow  were  reflected  in 
its  depths.  The  beauty  of  the  tropical  skies,  and  the  changing 
effects  of  the  glow  of  the  Aurora  Borealis  were  caught  and 
imprisoned  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  this  petrified,  storm-beaten, 
mystical  semblance  of  waters,  whose  profound  stillness  filled 
me  with  terror  mingled  with  rapture,  that  only  those  who 
appreciate  and  love  nature  can  understand. 

I  know  I  was  hypnotized  by  the  Canon's  vastness,  and  by 
the  magic  of  the  pale  blue  mists,  half  veiling  the  temples, 
cathedrals,  walls  and  bastions  that  show  along  endless  shelves 
where  the  armies  of  the  whole  world  might  find  lodgment. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  319 

I  was  helpless  and  overpowered  by  its  beauty  and  its  mystery, 
as  it  stretched  away  in  erratic  windings  for  miles  and  miles 
beyond  the  uttermost  power  of  vision.  The  ineffable  beauty 
of  this  prodigious  furrow  ploughed  by  the  Colorado  River 
moved  and  stirred  my  whole  being.  It  made  my  eyes  sting 
with  unbidden  tears,  and  evoked  an  involuntary  sob  that 
startled  me  into  a  realization  of  the  emotions  that  chained 
me  a  willing  captive,  to  the  witchery  of  its  magic  spell. 

At  last  we  reached  the  brink,  worn  and  weary  physically 
and  mentally.  I  was  thankful  I  had  escaped  from  the  perils 
of  the  trail  unhurt  and  more  than  thankful  for  my  day  in 
the  Canon,  which  holds  within  its  abysses  a  weird,  tangled, 
bewildering  vortex  of  supernal  and  undreamed-of  impossible 
scenes,  of  a  real  and  unreal  lower  world — scenes  that  haunted 
me  through  all  the  hours  that  came  with  the  night  when 
fatigue  and  sleep  stole  my  weary  senses  after  the  dreadful 
ascent  from  those  fearful  abysses,  from  the  sepulcher  wrought 
and  fashioned  by  the  agony  of  ages. 

All  that  night  my  spirit  hovered  over  that  wonderful 
chasm,  over  those  marvelous  terraced  steeps.  At  times  I  was 
once  again  down  in  those  vast  silences.  Then  I  stood  on 
some  pinnacle  discovering  fresh  colors — gold  and  glis 
tening  blues  intermingled  with  vivid  reds,  chromes  and 
greens.  All  the  colorings  of  the  earth  and  sky  which  are  cen 
tered  there,  with  the  mystical  tints  of  the  ocean  in  the  distance 
that  had  so  impressed  me  during  the  day,  were  still  with  me 
in  my  dreams. 

The  Canon's  beauty,  its  awful  solitudes,  were  still  vivid 
in  my  mind  when  I  stole  out  in  the  gray  dawn,  watching  it 
turn  to  gold,  when  the  sun  sprang  over  the  rim  and  stabbed 
the  gloomy  depths  with  shafts  of  light,  melting  away  the 
vapors,  lighting  up  the  deep  red  sandstone  and  tinted  marbles 
that  flashed  and  scintillated  in  the  bright  rays.  That  morn 
ing's  beauty,  the  glamor  of  it,  the  majesty  of  the  scene  spread 
out  before  me  a  panorama  of  color,  light  and  shade,  mingled 
with  celestial  beauty,  will  never  be  forgotten. 

Bert  and  I  had  many  walks  and  rides  during  our  stay 
at  the  Canon.  Often  we  would  wander  away  to  some  point 
of  interest,  and  every  place  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hotel  seemed 


320  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

worth  while.  We  would  loiter  along,  discovering  something 
new  or  unexpected,  or  seating  ourselves  on  the  rim — on  the 
very  edge  of  the  world  it  seemed  to  me — we  would  talk  or 
muse  in  silence,  away  from  the  crowd  and  tongues  that  vexed 
the  soul,  while  we  looked  out  across  the  Canon.  Far  as  the 
eye  could  reach  it  stretched  in  sinuous  curves  away  and  away 
into  infinity.  Across  from  where  we  sat  on  a  certain  cliff, 
I  saw  the  blue  line  of  forests  on  the  opposite  brink  showing 
dimly  above  the  strata  of  pale  yellow  stone,  with  a  tumbled 
world,  sloping  down,  down  from  the  far-off  ancient  banks 
of  a  river  now  nearly  a  mile  beneath. 

There  were  strange,  grotesque,  fanciful  upheavals  and 
phantasmal  forms.  I  watched  the  play  of  light  and  shade; 
saw  the  sun  strike  deep  into  the  torn  and  ragged  scars  that 
were  cut  in  the  face  of  the  cliffs,  brightening  the  pink  and 
red  of  the  limestone  into  deeper  shades,  and  showing  the 
waterways  that  might  have  been  fashioned  by  zigzag  streaks 
of  lightning,  as  in  confused  wanderings  they  wound  around 
pinnacles  and  buttes  down  into  a  labyrinth  of  chasms  and  im 
penetrable  shadowy  depths,  to  where  the  river  lies — a  river 
that  I  know  is  foaming  down  there  below  all  this  tangled  web 
of  limestone,  sandstone,  gneiss  and  quartz  that  lie  in  indis 
criminate  confusion,  yet  are  so  harmonious,  so  sublime  that  I 
often  closed  my  eyes,  which  ached  in  looking  at  the  wonderful 
mirages  that  showed  kaleidoscopic  effects  in  shifting  scenes 
and  colors. 

From  every  point  of  vantage  visited  I  found  it  was  the 
same,  a  series  of  surprises,  a  wonder,  an  apocalypse  of  gran 
deur  and  glory,  before  which  my  brain  reeled  in  the  mere 
effort  of  contemplating  the  inexhaustible  forms  of  Nature's 
architectural  carvings  that  filled  this  crinkled,  curled  old 
chasm,  winding  in  zigzag  sinuosities,  a  length  of  seventy-five 
miles  before  me  and  melting  away  beyond  the  power  of  vision. 

It  is  impossible  to  measure  distances  or  give  an  adequate 
idea,  or  to  guess  the  size  of  certain  objects  pointed  out.  A 
tiny  bit  of  the  flashing  river  four  thousand  feet  below  me, 
seemingly  only  a  few  hundred  feet  in  length,  was  in  reality 
six  miles  long.  I  had,  however,  no  wish  for  details.  I  pre 
ferred  to  feast  my  eyes  upon  the  phantasmal  forms  of  rock 
and  meditate,  for  it  is  a  place  for  thought  and  silence. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  321 

The  Canon  so  deeply  worn  and  scarred  by  the  conflict  of 
cycles  stretching  back  beyond  one's  imagining  was  old, 
perhaps,  when  Noah  sat  and  whittled  and  planned  the  ark, 
or  Adam  learned  the  art  of  subterfuge.  The  sun  shone  on 
these  mesas  encantadas  even  before  the  pueblos  of  the  cliff- 
dwellers,  like  determined  reminiscences  of  the  past,  clung  in 
inaccessible  places,  from  which  the  dwellers  crept  like  ants 
from  their  aerial  retreats,  or  before  the  ancestral  ape  stood 
erect. 

The  place  was  full  of  brooding  memories,  and  the  silence 
awful  in  its  intensity,  lay  in  the  vast  sunken  world  beneath  me. 
I  have  stood  upon  the  top  of  the  trembling  crater  of  Vesuvius, 
and  breathed  the  air  of  the  wind-swept  deserts  of  the  Nile; 
have  seen  the  river  Jordan  and  the  Dead  Sea;  have  heard 
the  thunder  of  falling  icebergs  from  the  Muir  Glacier, 
and  watched  the  icebergs  there  and  at  Taku  Inlet  drift  away 
in  the  waste  of  waters  spectral  as  dreams,  and  I  have  seen 
the  confusion  of  spouting  geysers  and  wraiths  of  vapor  from 
the  chaotic  underworld  in  the  Yellowstone  Park,  that  sends 
the  boiling,  foaming  jets  skyward,  with  clock-like  regularity. 
But  all  that  I  have  seen  seemed  to  be  but  a  sort  of  preparation 
for  me,  that  I  might  more  fully  enjoy  this,  the  greatest  of 
all  of  God's  grand  labyrinths  of  wonders. 

Someone  has  written  about  our  people  "doddering  abroad" 
to  see  scenery  incomparably  inferior  to  our  own.  Granted 
that  this  is  so  in  its  way,  yet  I  think  those  who  have  traveled, 
who  have  seen,  are  those  best  fitted  to  comprehend.  So  I  felt 
as  I  saw  something  of  the  thousand  miles  of  harmonious 
colorings  and  carvings  in  this  deep  cleft  that  stretched  away 
to  the  horizon's  uttermost  rim,  and  nearer  me  saw  mountains 
floating  in  the  blue  voids,  showing  peak,  turret  and  cone, 
with  no  visible  anchorage,  in  vivid  coloring  of  marvelous 
brilliancy,  which  softened  in  the  distance  into  a  soothing  har 
mony  of  colors,  through  atmospheric  influences  and  refraction. 

It  is  a  world  unlike  any  I  have  ever  known — a  world  of 
changing,  evanescent  lights,  elusive  and  beautiful  as  memory, 
and  of  colors  that  run  riot  from  the  depths,  up  and  up  to 
the  uttermost  verge.  It  is  so  vast,  so  glorious  in  its  distances, 
wherein  are  such  wonderful  mirage  effects,  that  one  imagines 


322  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

great  cities  and  armies  are  passing  and  repassing.  Seemingly 
ships  were  sailing  on  smooth  waters,  with  their  shadows 
plainly  seen  in  the  blue  depths. 

A  charming  marvelous  pageant  lay  over  against  the 
opposite  bank  from  me,  and  lower  down  were  vast  stretches 
of  plain  in  death-like  silence  and  isolation.  Then  there  were 
other  bright  groupings,  showing  a  very  miracle  of  climatic 
glory,  that  gave  me  an  unparalleled  scene  and  filled  me  with 
ecstasies  like  the  sound  of  some  exquisite  melody,  soul-filling, 
and  satisfying.  It  was  a  requiem,  a  hallelujah  —  a  des 
olate  ruined  world  here,  and  a  radiant  glowing  world  of 
beauty  there;  each  in  turn  speaking  to  my  heart  as  no 
words  could  do — "Sermons  in  stone"  indeed,  with  strange, 
soft,  weird  music  stealing  up  from  those  strangely  disquieting 
depths.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  winds  among  those  crags  that 
sobs  and  moans  and  then  changes  into  symphonies  sweet  and 
solemn,  dying  away  into  silent  benedictions,  until  one's  heart 
is  filled  with  a  pain  of  the  music  and  the  solemnity  of  silence. 

The  beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  silent  yet  shifting 
animated  glory,  swathed  in  soft  ethereal  vapors,  is  over 
powering  in  its  impressiveness,  and  is  homage-impelling; 
sternly  real,  yet  spectral  as  a  dream.  It  is  the  soul  of  all 
the  architects,  of  all  the  painters  and  sculptors  ever  known, 
for  in  its  depths  are  all  that  can  delight  the  eye  or  stir  the 
imagination  or  emotions.  It  is  a  geological  apocalypse  that 
touches  and  holds  one  in  thrall;  half  mystery,  half  revelation, 
where  language  fails  and  description  is  commonplace. 

With  me  it  will  be  a  matchless  spectacle,  whose  pictures 
will  always  be  a  part  of  myself,  whose  awful  grandeur,  while 
inexpressible,  leaves  its  impressions  on  the  soul.  Its  echoless 
silence,  symbolical  of  the  eternal  silence  coming  to  us  all;  its 
world  of  shadowy  forms,  stretching  like  turbulent  waves  in 
masses  of  color  rioting  against  the  rim  of  the  world — an 
enduring  and  deathless  memory,  filled  with  divine  pathos — 
filled  me  with  nameless  longings  that  were  indefinable,  as  I 
sat  in  the  presence  of  this  Canon,  where  Nature  has  done 
her  uttermost,  with  her  unerring  brush,  blending  the  sensu 
ous,  brilliant,  ravishing,  harmonious  revelation  beneath  me 
into  a  grand,  joyful  overture,  and  allegro,  through  which 
runs  a  vague  uncertain  minor  chord  of  sadness  and  pain. 


FROM  THE   WORLD  323 

Such  were  my  impressions.  What  the  Canon  is  to  others 
I  know  not;  there  are  people,  doubtless,  too  prosaic,  too  hope 
lessly  sane,  to  understand,  to  feel,  to  know;  but  for  me  it 
will  always  be  a  luxuriant  lotus-dream  of  matchless  beauty, 
and  lovely  as  the  hope  of  a  life  everlasting. 

We  encountered  some  wrecks  and  washouts  on  our  return 
and  had  some  thrilling  escapes  wherein  my  solicitous  friend 
showed  the  utmost  concern  as  to  my  mental  and  physical 
condition.  I  was  very  timid — for  the  time,  you  understand — 
and  he  seemed  to  revel  in  his  strength  and  courage.  Provi 
dence  and  Bert  watching  over  me,  I  had  nothing  to  fear.  We 
came  back  over  the  gray  billowy  desert  where  grow  the 
interminable  cacti  and  gaunt  yucca  trees,  which  stand  in  weird 
distorted  shapes;  coming  on  and  on  over  the  gray  sea  of 
tar-brush,  greasewood  and  smaller  varieties  of  shrubs.  At 
Needles  we  left  the  Colorado  River,  where,  after  its  wild 
and  thrilling  rush,  it  struggled  out  on  the  desert  wastes  of 
sand.  At  Yuma  and  the  Needles  after  a  touch  of  civilization 
it  turns  wearily  away  from  the  haunts  of  the  whites,  and, 
finding  its  way  through  a  vast  region  of  arid  lands,  it  slowly 
and  sadly  drowses  along  until  it  loses  itself  in  the  Gulf  of 
California. 

I  felt  something  like  the  river  after  the  exhaustive  glories 
of  the  Canon.  I  rested  in  placid  content,  feeling  a  complete 
satisfaction  after  seeing  this  one  of  the  world's  wonders,  and 
knowing  in  my  heart  that  I  had  done  something  toward 
avenging  Ruth,  for  if  Bert  has  no  love  in  his  heart  for  his 
wife,  I  am  rather  sure  he  has  not  very  much  left  in  his 
heart  for  the  one  who  charmed  him  away  from  her.  I 
find  this  letter  so  long  and  I  have  been  so  impressed  with 
the  Canon  that  I  could  not  tell  you  of  the  comedy  while  in 
the  presence  of  such  awe-inspiring  scenes;  it  does  not  seem 
right  to  allow  anything  trivial  to  intrude.  Expect  another 
letter  soon  less  instructive  but  a  diversion. 

In  the  rush  of  events,  after  my  return,  I  did  not  send  you 
the  above  letter  soon  as  I  expected,  but  will  add  the  following 
as  a  sort  of  postscript: 

''When  the  roses  of  the  summer  burn  to  ashes  in  the  sun, 
When  the  feast  of  love  is  finished  and  the  heart  is  overrun." 


324  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

When  the  feast  of  love  is  finished.  Aye,  there's  the  rub, 
Edith.  What  will  the  harvest  be?  At  least  if  I  understand 
myself  there  will  be  no  sheaves  of  regret  for  me  to  bind.  I 
am  Delilah  in  one  sense.  Sampson  may  keep  his  locks — but 
perchance  he  will  not  be  so  strong  in  his  vanity  and  conceit. 
Studying  the  man's  character,  he  is  puzzling  to  me  who  has 
made  a  study  of  mankind.  This  man  has  so  much  of  the 
nature  of  a  chameleon  in  his  make-up  I  can  better  describe 
his  mental  status  and  temperature  by  sending  you  copies  of 
some  notes  written  to  me  since  my  return.  I  will  give  extracts; 
of  one  letter  written  me  since,  after  I  had  attended  a  recep 
tion.  "*  *  *  It  made  me  wildly  jealous  to  see  you 
with  others,  and  the  strangest  feelings  took  possession  of  me. 
It  was  not  only  jealousy  but  a  sense  of  utter  loneliness.  It 
would  seem  that  we  misunderstood  each  other  and  I  am  glad 
to  have  the  opportunity  to  tell  you  how  unhappy  you 
made  me. 

"I  am  very  impetuous,  dear,  and  I  may  have  declared 
the  secret  of  my  heart  to  you  at  an  improper  time;  but  you 
will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  when  you  know  it  is  all  for  you  ? 
Oh,  darling,  if  I  could  only  be  with  you  tonight,  and  take 
you  in  my  arms  and  caress  and  love  you  as  I  wish,  I  should 
be  willing  to  die. 

"Think  of  my  impudence!  I,  a  poor,  lonely,  miserable 
man,  and  you  a  lovely,  beautiful  woman,  surrounded  by  all 
that  makes  life  happy  and  the  world  bright — why  should  I 
ever  hope  to  be  aught  to  you  but  a  friend?  I  should  not 
dream  of  bliss.  Yet,  dearest,  the  word  friend  sounds  so  hol 
low  to  me.  You  will  forgive  me  for  loving  you  so  passionately  ? 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  forgetful  of  the  past  nor  unmindful 
of  the  future.  I  have  been  so  utterly  lost  to  all  the  world 
for  so  many  months  that  my  heart  seems  ready  to  burst  its 
bonds  and  fly  to  you  of  all  the  world  for  comfort,  solace 
and  love.  If  it  is  too  hasty  do  not  chide  me.  If  you  can 
not  reciprocate  my  feelings,  forgive  me;  and  know  that  you 
are  the  only  one  except  one  to  whom  my  heart  and  being  has 
ever  been  wholly  tendered. 

"Your  letters  are  conservative  but  I  shall  endeavor  to  see 
you  soon.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  alone  where  I  can  open 


FROM   THE   WORLD  325 

my  whole  heart  to  you  and  then  if  you  still  think  me  unworthy 
I  shall  humbly  submit.  Until  then,  know  that  each  day  my 
thoughts  are  with  you  and  you  alone  are  my  only  comfort." 

You  see,  Edith,  he  acknowledges  having  loved.  "Except 
one,"  he  says.  Which  one  of  the  two  you  and  I  know  of? 
Am  I  conservative?  One  must  be  skillful,  you  know. 

Another  note  will  tell  its  story: 

"Your  sweetest  of  letters  came  to  me  an  hour  since  and 
dinner  over  finds  me  in  my  back  office,  doors  locked,  lights 
full  blast,  and  my  whole  being  thinking,  dreaming  of  you. 
Ah,  my  dearest  one,  little  you  know  what  a  pleasure  your 
letter  is  to  me.  In  all  the  wide  world  you  alone  can  make 
me  happy.  I  had  thought  of  going  away  for  a  year,  but  you 
are  the  magnet  that  keeps  me  here.  I  cannot  think  now  of 
leaving  you.  I  cannot  leave  my  only,  my  best  friend  to  'try 
to  forget  if  possible' — how  worse  than  useless  for  you  to  ask 
it.  I  may  be  able  to  make  you  understand — some  time." 

Another  note  entitled  AN  IDYL: 

TO   ONE  WHO   KNOWS. 

Beneath  the  moss-fringed  oak,  one  summer  noon 

I  lay,  reclining  on  the  fragrant  turf 

With  buttercups  and  daises  pied  bedecked. 

The  meadow-lark  with  amorous  passion   filled 

Broke  the  soft  air  with  joyous  songs  of  love — 

All   else  was   still.     The  thrilling   sunshine   streamed 

Through  the  gnarled  branches  overhead,  and  lay 

Warmth-giving  on  my  heart.    Soothed  by  the  scene, 

Sleep  stole  upon  my  senses,  and  visions  fair 

Born  of  my  wealth  of  love  dawned  on  my  soul. 

Methought  the  sunshine  fair,  caressing  me, 
Changed  to  a  lovely  tree.     Magnolia  blooms, 
Deep-bosomed,  ivory-white,  sprang  from  each  branch, 
The  fragrance  filled  the  air,  and — as  I  dreamed — 
The  luscious  sweetness  stole  into  my  soul, 
And  the  fair  tree  bent  low  its  stately  head, 
And  through  my  parted  lips  breathed  to  my  heart, 
The  deep,  sweet  promise  of  its  own  fair  life. 

The  touch  awoke  me  and  my  opening  eyes 
Found  the  soft  eyes  of  her  whom  all  the  world 
Can  never  from  my  heart  unclasp. 

Shivering  with  joy  I  drew  her  to  my  heart 
And  her  sweet  self  fulfilled  the  glorious  dream. 

Is  it  not  nice  to  be  called  "Sunshine,"  Edith,  Rather 
better  than  to  be  the  "rain  crow"  and  represent  a  drizzle  or 


326  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

downpour.     I  had  a  fancied  engagement,  hence  the  above 
letter. 

Were  I  not  convinced  that  Bert  is  above  the  vice  I  would 
think  he  had  acquired  the  opium  habit  and  was  seeing  things 
in  his  dreams.  Edith,  it  is  enough  to  make  one  sick  of  the 
whole  world  of  men.  How  poor  Ruth  and  doubtless  the 
other  dupe — if  she  were — would  have  hung  on  the  honeyed 
sweetness  of  these  notes.  They  had  their  quota,  I  presume, 
from  his  prolific  pen.  But  I  am  not  a  busy  bee  and  am  not 
storing  up  this  kind  of  honey.  Hear  ye  him:  "Your  letter 
was  very  sweet  and  kind,  dear,  but  at  the  same  time  there  is 
the  lack  of  that  delicate  expression  of  warm  passionate  love 
which  alone  will  make  me  perfectly  happy.  I  do  not,  how 
ever,  expect  you  to  love  me  now,  but  I  trust  and  pray  that  I 
can  some  day  feel  that  all  your  precious  heart  is  as  wholly 
mine  as  I  now  know  mine  is  truly  yours.  I  do  not  love  another, 
sweet.  I  know  you  mentioned  another  name  to  me,  but  I  do 
not  love  her — I  love  you  and  you  alone. 

"I  shall  not  take  it  that  you  believe  me  in  many  things, 
for  your  letter  indicates  that  you  do  not.  At  the  same  time 
I  cannot  believe  you  will  be  so  unjust  to  me  as  to  place  me 
and  my  protestations  upon  the  common  level  with  other  men. 
I  regret  to  admit  that  my  sex  are  as  a  rule  too  prone  to 
deception  and  duplicity  in  their  intercourse  with  the  opposite 
sex.  But  I  try  to  be  different  from  the  majority  of  men. 
I  assure  you,  my  dearest  girl,  that  when  I  tell  you  I  love  you 
better  than  any  other  woman  on  earth,  I  mean  every  word  I 
utter,  and  to  be  doubted  is  one  of  the  most  cruel  blows 
which  can  be  inflicted  upon  a  faithful  heart.  For  as  sure  as 
I  live,  as  sure  as  I  write  these  lines,  just  so  sure  is  my  heart 
wholly  yours  and  the  acme  of  my  life  will  only  be  when  I 
can  feel  and  know  that  you  are  all  mine  and  mine  alone. 

"I  doubt  very  much  that  I  shall  ever  attain  that  sublime 
degree  of  happiness  but  I  am  going  to  try,  nevertheless,  as 
long  as  life  remains,  for,  sweet  one,  you  are  the  only  woman 
in  all  this  world  I  yearn  for.  I  can't  blame  you  for  doubting 
me  when  I  know  how  untrue  men  are  as  a  rule,  but  time 
will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  just  as  devoted,  just  as  truly 
yours  as  it  is  possible  for  one  being  to  belong  to  another. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  327 

And  when  you  will  allow  me  to  see  and  talk  to  you,  1  am 
sure  you  will  believe  me,  no  matter  what  the  doubts  may  be." 
Edith,  what  manner  of  man  is  this?  Does  he  hypnotize 
himself  into  the  belief  that  he  is  in  love  with  me?  Is  love 
so  changeable,  so  evanescent  that  it  can  be  changed  like  a 
coat  or  a  collar?  Is  it  because  he  isn't  sure  and  is  determined 
to  win?  Conquest  is  his  desire  and  I  wonder  how  long  his 
fever-heat  passion  would  last  were  he  once  certain  I  had 
succumbed  to  his  magnetic  love.  AILEEN. 


XXXVI 

"How  sweet  to  think  of  one  who  knows  you  for  what  you  are,  for 
eood  and  evil,  yet  loves  and  ever  loves  you  for  the  better  part!" 

I  have  been  traveling  so  constantly,  Aileen,  since  I  wrote 
you  from  Florence,  I  have  had  no  time  for  writing  until  now, 
but  will  begin  with  my  impressions  of  Constantinople.  My 
pulses  quicken  yet  when  1  recall  my  first  glimpse  of  a  minaret 
and  an  old  turbaned  Turk,  as  we  sped  on  in  the  Orient 
Express  over  plains  so  often  dyed  with  blood.  Then  came  a 
stretch  of  water  with  low  edges.  The  Sea  of  Marmora! 
Is  it  possible? 

Next  the  Seven  Towers  once  used  as  a  state  prison,  but 
now  transformed  into  a  more  useful,  though  incongruous 
railroad  station,  desecrating,  if  one  might  say,  the  last  remain 
ing  vestiges  of  the  Greek  emperors.  But  the  chaotic  mass  has 
succumbed  to  the  infirmities  of  an  evil  and  misspent  life  and 
is  doing  good,  though  sullenly,  because  of  the  invasion  of 
the  Giaour  in  the  shape  of  the  train. 

I  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Seraglio  for  an  instant  stretching 
out  into  the  Bosphorus.  The  old  Seraglio  of  which  I  have 
read,  a  place  which  tells  of  love,  murder,  ambition  and  torture 
through  so  many  ages  !  Dark  trees  and  walls,  gilded  kiosks, 
green  lawns  and  sombre,  gloomy  courts  !  What  scenes  have 
been  enacted  there !  I  recall  with  a  shudder  the  dark  tunnel, 
which  it  is  said,  opened  from  under  some  gorgeous  chambers 
and  led  to  a  postern  out  at  sea,  where  troublesome  officials 
and  fickle  beauties  were  disposed  of.  The  Bosphorus  is  silent 
as  the  hideous  mutes  who  attended  to  the  disposal  of  the 
victims.  Silent  all;  only  we  know  that  death  walked  with  life 
in  this  charming  abode,  where  all  of  life's  best  and  its  worst, 
love,  despair,  hope  and  agony,  endured  for  a  moment.  The 
tragedies  of  Eastern  life  were  short  and  cruel.  I  give  a  sigh 
of  relief,  for  the  Seraglio  exists  no  more,  save  as  a  monument 
of  the  past.  The  Sultans  are  now,  in  a  measure,  amenable 
to  the  force  of  l">w. 

328 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


329 


Out  in  the  struggling  scarecrow  crowd  of  yelling  Greek, 
Italian,  Turkish,  French,  and  amid  a  scene  of  squalor,  I  am 
extricated  by  my  dragoman  and  I  find  myself  in  a  carnage, 
jolting  along  over  the  most  execrable  road  I  ever  was  shaken 
on  in  my  life. 

I  pass  a  real  mosque,  where  are  stone  water  troughs  as  if 
for  cattle,  but  I  see  the  faithful  Moslems,  performing  their 
ablutions.  They  wash  the  hands  and  feet,  and  let  prayer 
atone  for  the  rest.  I  see  a  walled  up  arch  and  Corinthian 


MOSQUE   OF    SANTA    SOPHIA. 

columns  of  greenish  marble,  some  sculptured  Roman  eagles 
in  the  cornice,  and  other  things  impossible  to  remember. 
Then  on  and  I  know  this  is  the  Golden  Gate,  Aurea  Porta; 
I  pinch  myself  to  see  if  I  am  awake.  The  Golden  Gate! 
Am  I  dreaming?  Yes,  for  a  moment  of  you  and  our  incom 
parable  Golden  Gate,  and  I  wonder  at  my  indifference.  I  do 
not  feel  the  spasm  of  delight  experienced  when  Rome's  ruins 
and  historical  walls  first  greeted  my  vision. 

When  I  landed  here,  it  was  March,  cold  and  dreary,  with 
biting  winds.     East,  the  Orient ! 


330  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

It  seemed  to  me,  born  and  brought  up  under  our  sunny 
skies,  that  I  had  found  the  long-sought-for  North  Pole.  I 
had  seen  no  more  vestige  of  winter  in  Italy  than  at  home;  a 
trifle  colder,  possibly,  yet  charming.  But  here  it  seemed 
more  real,  for  it  snowed  one  whole  day.  Think  of  it,  Aileen, 
a  real  snow  storm!  No  make-believe  storm  of  cut  paper 
showered  down  upon  the  stage  while  the  wind  screeched  back 
of  the  scenes,  equally  an  imitation  wind.  But  this  was  a  fierce, 
biting  wind  and  great  snowflakes  fell  so  thickly  that  it  was  a 
semi-twilight  all  the  afternoon. 

After  the  storm  I  saw  in  turn,  the  Golden  Horn,  Pera, 
Galata,  the  drawbridge  that  binds  Europe  with  Asia,  civiliza 
tion  with  barbarism,  seraglios,  mosques,  palaces,  domes, 
forests  of  minarets  in  bewildering  array,  St.  Sophia,  wherein 
some  of  the  greatest  and  most  solemn,  as  well  as  the  most 
horrible  scenes  have  been  enacted  from  the  Byzantine  emper 
ors  down  until  the  empire  ended.  I  was  not  impressed  bv 
this  church.  It  is  hard,  grating  in  fact,  in  some  respects. 
There  is  no  poetry,  no  illusions,  no  dim  perspective.  The 
arches  are  simply  arches.  They  did  not  strike  me  as  the 
mysterious  esthetic  beauty  of  the  splendid  interior  of  St. 
Peter's.  It  is  possibly  because  the  light  which  comes  in  strong 
from  innumerable  windows,  offends  by  its  disillusioning 
harshness. 

Thoughts  of  the  memorable  massacre  make  me  shudder; 
and  the  filthy,  repulsive  Moslems  lying  about  in  silence  or 
calling  upon  Allah  as  they  recite  the  Koran  are  not  condu 
cive  to  peace  .and  meditation.  A  little  of  the  poison  Medea 
spread  seems  to  linger  yet  in  the  atmosphere  of  this  church, 
one  of  the  Seven  Wonders  of  the  World,  erected  by  Con- 
stantine  and  dedicated  to  Wisdom,  but  used  for  feuds, 
murders  and  glorious  pageants,  and  now  void  and  empty. 

Once  before  this  altar,  now  cold  and  bare,  every  emperor 
had  knelt  either  to  be  crowned,  married,  or  to  ratify  solemn 
treaties.  Spiritual  and  earthly  potentates,  scenes  innumerable 
and  indescribable  have  been  enacted  here.  No  nation  in  the 
world  ever  admitted  political  and  ecclesiastical  conflicts  into 
a  church  as  did  the  Greeks. 

Now  the  service  of  Allah  fills  the  church  with  Turks  in 
numbers.  There  are  imaums,  mollahs  and  muezzins  to  call  to 


FROM   THE   WORLD  331 

prayers  from  the  minarets,  readers  of  the  Koran,  and  a  multi 
tude  of  semi-officials.  The  place  is  sacred  to  the  Moslems 
who  look  not  very  kindly  at  us  while  they  lie  about,  or  do 
acrobatic  feats,  falling  prone  on  the  floor  while  calling  upon 
Allah.  They  are  of  Mahomet's  flock,  and  go  unquestioned, 
though  my  clean  shoes  must  be  covered  with  dirty  old  slippers 
before  I  am  allowed  to  enter.  The  red  fezed  rabble  are  kept 


ENTRANCE   TO    BLACK    SEA. 

away  by  my  dragoman.  Without  him  I  would  not  be  safe 
for  a  moment.  Therefore  I  gladly  passed  out  to  view  more 
pleasant  places. 

We  went  by  boat  on  the  Bosphorus  up  to  the  Euxine  or 
Black  Sea.  It  was  a  novelty  to  me  to  see  the  veiled  women 
huddled  like  a  flock  of  sheep  on  the  front  part  of  the  boat. 
All  classes  were  together;  shrouded  by  curtains.  No  man  is 
allowed  behind  the  curtains,  except  venders  of  sweets  and 
drinks,  or  the  official  who  takes  the  tickets.  These  were  of 
great  interest  to  me,  and  the  absurdity  of  the  system,  allow- 


332  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

ing  one  or  two  men  behind  the  scenes,  struck  me  as  ridiculous. 

The  picturesque  Asiatic  shore  claimed  my  attention,  with 
its  chain  of  palaces,  villas  and  towns,  whose  walls  are  literally 
bathed  in  the  waves  of  the  Bosphorus. 

The  most  interesting  of  all  was  the  Dolmabaktche  palace, 
joined  to  a  mosque  with  its  white  marble  steps  laved  by  the 
shining  waters.  We  went  through  the  palace;  it  was  gorgeous 
in  rich  marbles,  wood  carvings,  paintings,  and  priceless  rugs 
and  carpets  from  the  Sultan's  own  looms.  Great  marble 
baths  and  plunges  were  in  evidence,  yet  lacking  in  other  things 
such  as  we  are  accustomed  to  have  in  the  most  ordinary 
houses.  Further  on  were  other  palaces  and  the  eccentric 
windings  of  machicolated  ramparts  and  round  towers.  Still 
further  up,  where  the  stream  narrows,  Xerxes  placed  his 
Bridge  of  Boats,  and  here  the  Crusaders  passed.  And  high 
on  a  hill  I  saw  the  American  college !  And  I  thanked  the 
dear  Allah  for  the  sight.  Here  the  Cross,  peace,  science,  and 
the  languages.  There  the  Crescent  and  the  shattered  remains 
of  the  blood-stained  fortress  of  Mohammed  II. 

Painted  wooden  villas,  or  kiosks,  one-half  with  perforated 
outer  shutters  for  the  harem,  are  on  the  Asiatic  side.  I  thought 
if  Bert  Wilder  were  here  he  certainly  would  be  on  the  Asiatic 
and  not  the  European  side,  and  if  so  how  easily  matters 
might  be  adjusted.  If  only  we  were  educated  to  the  harem 
idea !  But  to  us  the  idea  is  horrid  and  repellant.  Emotions 
and  the  play  of  feelings,  the  result  of  our  civilized  life,  are 
unknown  here.  It  is  an  indication  of  mental  culture  with  us. 
The  Turks  do  not  possess  or  understand  as  we  do.  They 
have  not  progressed.  We  have  gone  forward,  not  they. 

Then  the  shores  narrowed  to  the  gates  of  the  Black  Sea, 
the  sea  which  it  is  said  is  never  quiet,  it  being  the  home  of 
the  winds  that  circle  and  surge  and  come  as  I  felt  them,  biting 
and  stinging,  from  the  frozen  fields  and  Russian  steppes. 
The  gates,  however,  shut  off  the  winds  to  some  extent,  for 
here  it  is  but  a  stone's  throw  between  Europe  and  Asia.  The 
shores  of  Buyukedere,  Therapia,  and  ambassadorial  palaces 
meet  my  gaze;  while  mentally  I  see  the  Argonauts,  Jason 
and  his  Argives  sailing  out  to  Colchis  in  quest  of  the  Golden 
Fleece.  The  Euxine  Sea  and  its  black  waters!  Armenia, 


FROM   THE   WORLD  333 

Georgia  beyond,  Circassia,  Odessa,  the  Sea  of  Azoff,  and  the 
inland  ocean,  the  Caspian !  Localities  and  bygone  names  and 
scenes  pass  and  re-pass  and  surge  up  to  my  memory;  real 
and  traditional.  Here  is  Therapia,  and  the  glittering  crowd 
of  diplomats,  secretaries,  embassadresses  in  carriages,  Arab 
horses,  veiled  women,  and  dainty  Greek  ladies  with  large  dark 
eyes.  Launches  full  of  people  go  by,  and  larger  boats  plough 
their  way  through  smooth  waters.  Therapia  will  linger  in 
memory  as  sweet  and  clean,  dry  and  beautiful. 

From  there  I  went  to  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia  with  my 
dragoman,  who  secured  a  good  boat  or  caique,  and  a  man 
to  pull  the  bow  oar.  The  waters  were  thick  with  the  caiques; 
they  looked  like  insects  skipping  about.  There  were  boat 
loads  of  veiled  women  with  never  a  man,  save  the  rowers,  not 
even  a  eunuch  in  their  company.  I  saw  only  one  eunuch  while 
there.  He  was  a  beastly  looking  fellow  and  was  with  some 
of  the  Sultan's  family. 

A  brother  cannot  go  with  a  sister,  a  son  with  a  mother, 
a  husband  with  his  wife,  in  fact,  any  male  cannot  accompany 
the  women,  except  servants  or  eunuchs,  the  division  of  sexes 
is  complete.  The  scenery,  however,  was  very  attractive.  The 
women  in  the  ferejah,  or  cloaks,  pink,  blue,  purple  and  red, 
some  heavily  veiled,  some  in  thin  white  veils  with  rouged 
cheeks  and  kohl-darkened  eyes,  and  the  men  with  the  red  fez 
and  long  dark  surtout,  were  everywhere ;  others  with  turbans 
were  dressed  in  white,  some  in  red;  Greeks  in  full  white 
drawers  and  embroidered  vests,  with  weapons  thrust  into  the 
scarfed  waist.  Christian  and  Moslem  pass  and  repass  like 
scenes  in  dreamland. 

I  am  living  over  it  as  I  go  through  the  Dardanelles.  You 
know  the  low  hills  that  run  down  to  the  narrow  stream  which 
seems  to  close  in  and  shut  one  off  from  further  progress.  At 
least  that  was  my  feeling  as  we  steamed  along.  The  mist 
clearing  away,  however,  showed  higher  snowy  ranges  lying 
further  back,  gave  more  pleasing  pictures,  growing  more 
beautiful  as  we  went  through  the  ^Egean  Sea,  and  among  the 
fairy  like  islands  of  the  Grecian  Archipelago,  and  then  we 
are  at  Piraeus.  I  breathed  a  prayer  of  relief,  for  the  boat  was 
crowded,  and  the  odors  of  stale  humanity  from  people  who, 


334  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

though  well  dressed,  told  plainly  of  stuffy  sleeping  rooms 
where  dirt,  foul  air  and  perspiration  were  permanent  tenants. 
Good-bye  to  Greek  boats  forever !  I  mentally  take  oath  never 
to  be  tempted  again,  and  now  for  Athens. 

I  am  drinking  wind  as  drinking  wine  and  feel  a  strange 
exhilaration  from  the  warm  fragrant  breeze  that  comes  from 
the  ^Egean  Sea,  which  sends  little  clouds  of  dust  along  the 
white  road  that  leads  to  the  bay  of  Eleusis,  where  the  pro 
cessions  used  to  wind  their  way,  where  children  carried 
flowers,  and  the  priestesses  led  the  sacrificial  bulls  to  the 
temples. 

My  sketching  materials  and  paper  for  writing  are  always 
a  part  of  me  in  my  wanderings.  Hence  I  pen  my  thoughts 
to  you  when  the  mood  is  upon  me.  From  the  top  of  a  hill 
I  have  feasted  my  eyes  upon  a  fair  scene,  a  long  green  stretch 
of  valley,  where  the  herds  browse  and  the  bees  stagger  with 
their  weight  of  honey,  gathered  on  the  slopes  of  Hymettus. 
Groves  of  olive  and  myrtle,  show  in  spots  on  the  hills,  and 
the  young  buds  and  blossoms  send  their  fragrance  up  to  me, 
for  it  is  early  spring  in  Greece.  I  shall  only  mention  my  visit, 
you  have  been  here,  and  know  what  it  means  to  me. 

The  Acropolis,  the  Parthenon,  the  Theatre  of  Dionysus, 
and  the  Odeon,  Herodes  Atticus,  the  Temple  of  Theseus, 
and  the  magnificent  ruins,  the  marvels  of  sculpture.  A  few 
only  have  escaped  the  despoiler's  hand.  While  here  I  have 
visited  Eleusis  and  the  ruins  of  the  great  Propylae,  where 
priests  once  offered  sacrifices  in  honor  of  the  goddess  Demeter 
or  Ceres.  Pluto,  Proserpine,  the  rhythm  of  the  sea  laving  the 
tombs  of  Themistocles — what  thoughts  come  to  me  ! 
Persians  and  Goths  and  their  destruction  of  the  beautiful 
temples.  The  din  of  wars  and  high  revel  seems  to  come  to 
me  as  I  stand  once  again  on  the  summit  of  the  Acropolis 
for  a  last  look.  In  fancy  I  hear  the  eloquent  words  of 
Demosthenes,  thundering  across  Mars  Hill,  and  the  softer, 
sweeter  tones  of  Paul,  telling  the  Athenians  the  story  of 
the  one  true  God.  Sophocles,  Plato,  CEdipus,  the  blind  king 
of  Thebes;  Xerxes  with  his  archers,  the  legendary  camp  of 
the  Amazons,  Aristides,  Leonidas  and  Pericles,  are  far  more 
entrancing  to  my  mental  vision  than  the  every  day  life  about 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


335 


GREEK    SOLDIER. 


me.  The  degenerate 
Greeks,  especially  the  sol 
diers,  airy  sort  of  war 
riors  in  short  full  skirt, 
braided  jacket,  white 
hose,  and  betassled  slip 
pers,  are  a  faint  imita 
tion  of  ballet  dancers. 
They  revel  in  short  skirts 
while  women  break  rock 
on  the  roads,  plough  and 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
those  who  once  wor 
shipped  the  goddess  Ceres,  who  once  guided  the  plow  and 
taught  the  arts  of  agriculture. 

Sappho  and  her  songs,  the  Isle  of  Milo,  Mount  Ida,  Cor 
inth,  fair  Olympus,  all  are  memories  now,  Aileen.  The 
Syrian  coast,  the  Gulf  of  Smyrna,  "The  Crown  of  Ionia," 
Rhodes,  the  old  town  of  the  Crusaders,  and  Samos,  the  island 
that  knew  Pythagoras — what  delightful  recollections  of  them 
and  the  terraced  hills,  valleys  and  snow-capped  mountains; 
of  apple,  almond  and  orange  blossoms,  the  odors  coming 
direct  as  if  from  my  own  home.  The  dear  familiar  sweets 
were  wafted  from  strange  unknown  shores  of  the  ^Egean 
Sea  and  the  bays  along  the  indented  coast  line  of  Asia. 

And  now  I  am  finishing  this  with  the  old  town  of  Jaffa 
or  Joppa  in  sight.  I  will  send  this  on  with  the  boat,  and 
will  follow  this  letter  with  another  from  the  Holy  City. 

EDITH. 


XXXVII 

"Too    deep,   too    deep,    of   the    waters    of    love, 
The  beautiful  woman  had  drunk  in  the  wood; 

The  dangerous,  wonderful  waters  that  fill 
The  soul  with  wine  that  subdues  the  will." 

My  auntie  avers  that  my  way  is  not  her  way,  Edith,  dear, 
and  that  I  will  drive  her  to  an  untimely  death  by  my  wilful 
neglect  of  my  home.  You  know  she  has  full  sway  and 
manages  the  house  as  if  it  were  her  own.  But  she  would 
like  me  to  remain  at  home  more  than  I  do  for  her  sake, 
more  than  the  house.  Still  she  is  a  bit  afflicted  with  the 
old  moth-eaten  theory  that  woman  is  out  of  her  sphere,  if 
she  concerns  herself  with  aught  but  domestic  affairs.  I  tell 
her  that  in  this  age  of  inventions,  electricity,  compressed  air, 
prepared  foods,  and  ready  made  clothing,  only  addle-pated 
women  need  concern  themselves  about  household  affairs  all 
the  time  or  devote  too  much  time  to  needless  things.  It 
savors  too  much  of  the  primitive  man  and  the  wickiups,  when 
women  were  expected  to  do  all  the  hard  work.  1  think  my 
house  is  a  model  of  neatness. 

Brain  work  counts  in  the  management,  you  know.  And 
why  should  I  spend  any  unnecessary  hours  within  doors, 
when,  like  yourself,  I  can  frolic  out  doors  to  so  much  better 
advantage  to  myself,  mentally  and  physically. 

Since  visiting  the  Canon  I  concluded  to  try  the  Sierras. 
An  altitude  of  seven  thousand  feet  suits  me,  and  I  am  up 
here  for  a  short  time.  I  am  not  searching  for  the  lotus 
blossoms  of  the  Nile  in  the  mountains,  nor  do  I  look  for 
edelweiss  on  the  plains.  Yet  in  my  own  dooryard  at  home 
the  papyrus  tosses  its  long  gray  hair  in  the  warm  sweet  winds, 
as  happy,  green  and  luxuriant  as  it  did  in  the  old  days  on 
the  Nile.  And  the  red  spikes  of  the  snow  plant  up  here 
standing  like  so  many  red-coated  sentinels  guarding  patches 
of  snow,  and  lording  it  over  the  pale  sweet  mats  of  Cassiopea 
and  other  star-like  blossoms  are  worth  more  to  me  than  all 

336 


FROM   THE   WORLD  337 

the  frosted  furry  gray  bits  of  edelweiss  in  existence !  So 
there  is  a  fling  at  the  bit  of  edelweiss  you  sent  me. 

You  must  understand  that  I  think  our  mountains  are 
unequalled.  Here  I  am  seven  thousand  feet  above  my  home 
in  the  dear  old  city  by  the  sea,  with  the  great  forest  of  sugar 
pines  hundreds  of  feet  in  height  above  my  head,  and  climbing 
the  peaks  still  higher  up,  disputing  the  eternal  snows  crowning 
their  crests. 

In  Norway,  the  timber  line  is  four  thousand  feet;  but 
here  Nature  seems  to  abhor  rules,  and  is  careless  about  lines 
or  boundaries.  Small  wonder  that  people  are  children  of 
Nature  out  here  on  the  sunset's  rim. 

One  day  I  slipped  away  from  my  friends  and  wandered 
alone,  through  the  vast  solemn  woods,  listening  to  the  sound 
of  wind-vexed  boughs  of  the  pines,  tossing  helplessly  far- 
above,  while  all  was  peaceful  and  quiet  where  I  rested,  on  a 
great  flat  boulder  at  the  gnarled  roots  of  a  giant  pine. 

The  god  of  contrariety  possessed  me  that  day.  I  would 
not  join  a  party  in  a  picnic  on  Lake  Tahoe.  I  wanted  diver 
sion  of  another  kind,  the  diversion  of  being  in  pleasant 
company — my  own — for  the  vexed  spirit  of  some  old  pagan 
ancestor  is  crying  out,  striving  to  make  itself  understood — 
the  spirit,  I  am  sure,  of  some  one  bound  by  an  inexorable 
law,  deprived  of  the  bliss  of  wandering,  as  I  do,  free  amid 
matchless  vistas  of  forests,  and  scenes  of  ineffable  beauty. 
Under  the  patriarchal  trees  where  the  sounds  of  rippling 
water  come  in  pleasing  varying  tones  to  the  ears,  while  the 
heavy  odors  of  the  woods  rejoice  the  senses,  I  found  myself 
building  mounds  of  stone — the  pagan  in  me  at  work — com 
memorating  something  or  marking  a  place  for  worship;  and 
surely  it  was  worth  while.  Here,  where  no  sound  of  the 
outside  world  pulses  up  to  my  retreat,  I  look  from  my 
"Mizpah"  up  to  the  Cathedral  Peaks,  cut  like  cameos  in  the 
ultramarine  of  the  sky,  Nature's  magnificent  carvings, 
showing  in  the  domes  and  graceful  spires,  sentinel  Titans 
above  the  lesser  mountains  which  lie  beneath  them,  like 
tossed  and  tumbled  frozen  waves,  left  by  the  troubled  throes 
of  a  world,  when  chaos  reigned,  and  think  it  small  wonder 
that  human  beings  adoring  the  work  of  the  Creator  should 


338  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

find  themselves  at  times  building  monuments  and  heaps  of 
stone,  puny  imitations  of  the  mountains,  consecrated  by  His 
presence. 

I  can  have  my  heap  of  stone  for  my  altar.  So  can  every 
one.  There  are  no  reserved  pews  here,  no  sectarian  trees 
saying  this  is  the  only  way,  but  each  and  every  shaft  pointing 
heavenward  in  silence  and  in  peace.  There  is  no  wrangling, 
no  discords  of  varying  opinions  among  them.  I  can  think, 
meditate,  pray  and  give  thanks  to  the  All  Powerful  and 
All  Wise,  without  the  disease  of  unbelief  assailing  me,  and 
thus  am  at  peace  with  myself  and  the  world.  I  find  myselt 
gathering  branches  of  the  wild  cherry,  inhaling  the  fragrance 
of  the  pure  white  blossoms,  and  imagine  myself  back  in  the 
old  days  of  the  Druids,  when  the  white  robed  priests  cut 
the  mistletoe  branches  and  gave  a  piece  to  each  household 
that  evil  might  be  warded  from  each  decorated  door. 

The  mistletoe  grows  far  below  me  in  the  valleys  and 
foothills,  but  these  starry  blossoms  are  better,  sweeter  and 
more  to  my  liking  so  I  shall  weave  a  garland  for  myself, 
and  fear  not. 

Splash,  splash,  ta-ral-ap,  ta-ral-ap,  the  sounds  from  a  small 
stream  that  ripples  along  its  shining  moss-lined  way,  born 
in  some  hidden  spring  further  up  the  side  of  the  cliff,  reached 
my  ears,  soothing  and  restful.  There  are  great  clusters  of 
azaleas,  showing  bits  of  pink  flame  in  their  blossoming 
beauty,  lining  the  stream;  and  the  sun  filtered  through  the 
heavy  foliage  of  the  giants  of  the  forest,  and  glistened  on 
the  glossy  leaves  of  the  lower  shrubs.  The  warm  atmosphere 
is  heavy  with  a  delightful  harmless  narcotic  that  is  quieting 
and  lulls  me  to  deeper,  sweeter  rest,  than  the  world  elsewhere 
can  give. 

The  sound  of  the  winds  among  the  "eld  druid  trees"  comes 
drifting  downward,  like  the  sound  of  the  surf  on  a  world 
distant  beach.  It  gave  me  a  thrilling,  the-world-is-mine  sort 
of  feeling,  caused  by  the  supreme  sense  of  isolation,  away 
from  all  of  life  and  strife  in  the  world  below  me. 

I  gather  some  clusters  of  azaleas  and  maiden-hair  fern, 
and  clasp  the  cool  five  fingered  ferns  and  lay  them  upon  the 
altar  of  friendship  which  I  have  built  for  you,  Edith,  and 


FROM   THE   WORLD  339 

[for  one  other  !  The  dear,  sweet,  perishable  ferns,  which 
[bathed  their  tiny  root  fingers  in  the  waters  of  the  stream  that 
sings  its  way  through  the  scented  ways  of  bloom,  send  some  of 
their  fragrance  blessing  the  waters  in  return  for  the  life  it 
[gives  to  them. 

Ah,  dearest,  amid  these  tranquil  retreats,  I  seem  to  be  met 
with  a  friendly  spirit.  I  may  never  know  the  secrets  Nature 
holds  sacred  to  herself,  yet  in  the  movements  of  the  leaves, 
in  the  multitudinous  whisperings  and  strange  workings  of 
unseen  forces,  I  know  peace  and  love  are  being  sent  out  to 
me  in  some  strange,  inexplicable  way  I  feel  but  cannot 
fathom.  There  is  nothing  hostile,  only  a  welcome,  and  a 
promise  of  peace  within  these  mountain  quietudes. 

Far  up  in  the  air  above  a  tiny  lake  that  gleams  like  a  gem 
amid  its  emerald  setting,  a  sea  pigeon  poises  on  motionless 
wings  and  seems  to  be  in  harmony  with  my  idle  existence. 
The  bird  is  waiting  for  something — its  breakfast  of  trout, 
doubtless  down  below  in  the  shining  depths.  And  somehow 
I  seem  in  an  expectant  mood,  waiting  for  something  to  come 
into  my  life,  that  with  all  I  have  had  to  bless  me,  has  seemed 
so  far  to  be  rather  useless. 

Yet  how  do  we  know  that  death  will  be  any  better?  Will 
it  make  those  we  care  for  love  us  more,  when  we  do  not  need 
it?  Will  it  make  our  enemies  hate  us  less  when  we  do  not 
care?  What  does  it  all  matter?  Why  should  I  care  about 
the  time  when  my  eyes  are  closed  and  the  long  dark  tunnel 
to  which  we  all  are  hastening  shall  shut  out  the  light  for 
evermore?  It  is  while  I  know,  and  can  appreciate  the 
flowers,  and  the  kind  words,  that  I  want  them.  After  death 
I  will  not  need  or  know. 

I  am  roused  by  a  soft  footfall.  1  turn  my  head  and  see 
two  great  liquid  eyes  gazing  at  me  through  a  tangled  under 
growth  of  chaparral.  A  shy,  spotted  fawn  is  gazing  curiously, 
but  does  not  seem  afraid.  Then  I  hear  the  drumming  of  the 
grouse  calling  each  other.  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  humming 
bird  as  with  a  whirr  of  wings  it  flashes  from  one  bright 
flower  to  another.  The  chipmunks  chatter  and  scurry  over 
the  fallen  trees  or  race  along  in  quest  of  food. 


340  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

I  love  to  watch  the  denizens  of  the  forest,  and  the  aimless 
ants  racing  in  mad  endeavor  to  go  nowhere,  it  seems,  and 
to  hear  the  jay  birds  quarreling  and  see  the  woodpeckers 
busy  searching  for  the  succulent  grub  under  the  rough  bark 
of  the  sugar  pines.  All  interest  me  at  times  like  this,  when  I 
have  found  that  my  days  have  been  insufficient  and  unsatisfy 
ing  while  turbulent  longings  fill  my  heart.  When  there  are 
missing  notes  in  Life's  symphony,  then  I  want  to  be  alone  and 
go  out  in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  where  people  think;  we 
have  nerves,  in  the  cities,  you  know,  Edith. 

I  find  peace  and  harmony  among  things  that  cannot  talk. 
It  was  talk,  principally,  which  sent  me  out  here  alone  today. 
There  is  a  man,  one  of  the  party  who  came  up  with  us. 
How  he  attached  himself  to  the  party,  I  know  not.  I 
believe  he  is  one  of  those  barnacles  one  finds  in  society,  as 
well  as  in  salt  water.  He  has  a  tongue,  and  two  pale, 
bleached,  contiguous  eyes  that  look  like  a  picture  I  once  saw 
of  the  Siamese  twins — they  are  so  closely  connected.  He 
revels  in  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  that  he  subserves  sense 
to  sound  never  ruffles  his  placid  content.  He  is  one  of  those 
pests  who  always  have  a  good  deal  to  say,  and  in  order  to 
verify  his  statements,  enters  into  the  minutest  details  as  to 
the  day  of  the  week,  the  month,  the  year,  and  the  name  of  the 
person  who  said  or  did  so  and  so.  An  exact  diagram  or  map 
of  the  country  goes  along  with  the  story,  which  always  floun 
ders  in  a  whirlpool  of  nothings  that  leaves  his  hearers,  or 
me,  at  least,  in  a  mood  for  anything  that  is  movable,  or 
throwable.  But  he,  I  understand,  belongs  to  the  nouveau 
riche — and  is  tolerated. 

But  this  self-satisfied  person  wished  to  remain  with  "Miss 
Aileen;  she  is  so  appreciative,  you  know."  If  only  you  could 
have  seen  him  when  I  thanked  him  and  said  I  was  not  strong 
enough  to  endure  any  company  but  my  dull  self,  and  I 
preferred  to  be  alone. 

He  stared  at  me  in  amazement;  he  could  not  comprehend 
that  anyone  would  refuse  his  company.  He  looked  like 
some  lone,  stray  maverick  that  had  been  lassoed  and  brought 
to  a  strange  corral.  He  was  positively  bewildered  at  the  idea 
that  his  presence  was  not  considered  a  tonic  and  a  necessity. 


FROM   THE    WORLD  341 

He  is  a  loose-jointed,  nervous  runt,  his  words  coming  in  a 
sort  of  weird  chant,  with  an  undertone  or  minor  strain  that 
is  burdened  with  a  sort  of  wail,  which  is  as  soothing  to  me 
as  the  sound  of  the  fog  horn  at  Point  Bonita,  and  his  phil 
osophy  of  life  is  summed  up  in  so  many  words  winnowed  from 
a  mass  of  verbiage. 

"I  am  living  my  life  as  best  suits  me.  I  may  be  wicked, 
but  I  enjoy  my  life,  and  spend  my  money  which  was  left  me. 
I  am  not  able  or  willing  to  work.  I  have  one  consolation — 
when  my  money  is  gone,  if  it  must  go,  there  is  the  county 
hospital  and  a  quiet  time  ahead  where  there  will  be  nothing 
to  do  but  eat  and  sleep." 

Do  you  wonder  I  fled  to  the  wilderness  and  have  spent  the 
day  in  solitude?  I  would  not  mention  the  incident,  only  I 
will  tell  you  that  he  is  to  marry  soon  an  up-to-date  widow  I 
have  met,  who  believes  in  progressive  matrimony  as  fully  as 
she  does  in  euchre.  Having  slipped  the  matrimonial  noose 
twice,  though  yet  young,  a  third  term  will  not  cause  much 
of  a  disturbance  in  her  mental  make-up.  Her  politics  and 
inclination  permit  her  to  believe  in  the  third  term. 

I  follow  a  trail  still  further  up  the  slope;  the  air  is  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  sun-steeped  herbs,  and  farther  up,  almost 
to  the  snow  line,  I  hear  the  ting,  ting-a-ling  of  bells  and  know 
that  a  band  of  sheep  is  grazing  on  the  tender  growth  of 
shrubs,  which  are  so  dense  I  cannot  see  the  herd.  I  resist  the 
temptation  of  following  it  further  up,  for  the  shadows 
lengthen  and  the  asters  and  tall,  spotted  lilies,  growing 
thickly,  beckon  me  to  their  soggy  vales  of  pleasantness. 

I  am  enjoying  and  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  an  air 
stratum  so  high  above  the  lower  levels  that  I  feel  a  sort  of 
exultation.  There  is  a  newness  here,  a  something  that  strikes 
me  with  a  strange  feeling,  in  the  curious,  breathless  whisper 
ings  which  come  with  the  sway  of  the  pine  needles  and 
hushed  rustle  of  decayed  bark  on  the  trees. 

A  sudden  stab  of  the  silence  by  the  thud  of  a  falling  pine 
cone  accentuates  the  stillness;  and  in  the  solemnity  of  the 
heights,  I  seem  to  sense  the  soul  of  the  forest — undefinable, 
incontestable,  mysterious — which  plays  on  my  emotions  and 
enthralls  with  its  compelling  forces.  When  the  wind  sighs 


342  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

softly  around  the  great  gray  boulders  and  moans  up  among 
the  boughs,  calling  and  whispering  something,  I  fain  would 
know,  but  cannot  solve.  Lost  and  found  again  in  echoes  of 
its  own  sighing,  it  comes  to  me  like  unspoken  thoughts,  that 
in  some  way  we  know  come  to  us  from  others. 

All  through  the  day  there  has  been  a  feeling  of  expectancy 
within  me.  The  wordless  music  of  the  upper  world  seemed 
to  be  portentous  of  something  coming,  coming,  which  my 
material  spirit  cannot  fathom.  Nature  crooning  herself  to 
sleep,  as  the  dim  evening  hours  come.  Then  a  sound  more 
definite  comes  to  me — something  different,  sweet,  elusive, 
faint,  soft  and  dreamlike — a  melody  that  was  full  of  the 
most  witching  sweetness  and  touches  the  very  depths  of  my 
soul  with  its  pathos.  Then  there  were  notes,  triumphant, 
clear,  uplifting  me  into  a  new  world — one  of  song.  Then 
soft,  solemn,  heavenly  music  swept  through  the  forest  aisles, 
trembling  with  sorrowful  reverberations,  which  set  my  heart 
and  nerves  trembling  with  the  passion  of  it. 

It  sounded  like  the  moaning  banshee  winds,  around  the  old 
ruined  tower  at  Glendalough,  which  I  heard  once,  and  was 
assured  by  an  Irish  guide,  meant  death.  I  shivered  as  the 
strange  melody  thrilled  and  wrung  my  heart.  There  was  so 
much  of  sadness;  it  was  full  of  minor  chords,  and  cadences, 
with  tears  and  heartaches  in  it,  that  touched  my  heart  to  the 
quick. 

I  hastened  on  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Gaining  the 
crest  of  a  hill  after  a  depression,  I  saw  a  young  girl  sitting 
on  a  boulder,  a  short  distance  below  me.  A  shaft  of  light 
from  the  setting  sun  pierced  the  thick  foliage,  and  cast  a 
warm  light  upon  her  hair,  which  shone  a  golden  glory  about 
a  face,  so  beautiful  that  it  startled  me.  "Good-bye  forever," 
she  sang  softly. 

She  looked  as  if  the  springtime  of  love,  the  songs  of  birds, 
the  fragrance  of  loquats  and  magnolia  blooms  had  been  with 
her  all  her  life.  She  was  like  one  of  the  fair  sweet  flowers 
herself  in  her  young  beauty.  The  gold  of  her  hair  might 
have  been  stolen  from  the  acacias,  the  blue  in  her  eyes  was 
the  blue  of  the  forget-me-nots  and  heartsease.  Her  face 
was  marble-like  in  its  whiteness,  except  the  soft  wild  rose 


FROM   THE   WORLD  343 

blush  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  beautiful  mouth,  with  the  lips 
curving  deliciously  in  a  true  cupid's  bow. 

I  stood  for  a  moment  waiting,  as  the  last  note  died  away, 
tremulously,  leaving  me  filled  with  its  melody.  She  arose 
and,  looking  upwards,  I  saw  tears  stealing  down  her  cheeks. 
I  felt  as  though  I  was  an  intruder,  and  thought  to  turn  and 
go  back  unnoticed.  But  a  movement  sent  a  small  pebble 
rolling  down  the  path.  She  started  as  if  in  terror.  I  said: 
uDo  not  be  frightened;  I  have  been  up  here  all  day;  there  is 
nothing  to  fear." 

"You  have  been  out  here  all  day?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  enjoy  being  alone — up  here.  I  do  not  feel  lonely; 
in  fact  I  am  never  less  alone  than  when  alone,  as  we  term  it, 
when  among  such  scenes  as  you  see  here." 

While  I  was  talking,  she  turned  and  brushed  the  tears 
away,  striving  to  control  herself.  Her  voice  was  sweet  and 
tremulous,  and  in  her  eyes,  with  long  lashes  that  veiled  them 
when  she  looked  at  me,  there  was  a  depth  of  woe,  a  dumb 
pathos  that  thrilled  me  somehow  with  pity,  though  her 
young  beauty  would  rather  inspire  admiration  than  pity. 
What  sorrow  had  struck  its  shaft  of  pain  in  the  heart 
of  this  glorious  creature?  Some  impulse  made  me  feel  such 
an  infinite  pity  that  I  longed  to  take  her,  stranger  though  she 
was,  in  my  arms  and  comfort  her.  She  seemed  scarcely  more 
than  a  child;  one  who  needed  to  be  soothed  and  loved. 

"You  are  a  lover  of  Nature,  else  you  would  not  be  out 
among  the  hills  all  day;  I  know,  and  I  understand,"  she  said 
softly. 

"If  so,  then  you  know  how  good  it  is  to  have  an  hour  or 
two  away  from  the  heartbeats  of  a  tumultuous  world,  and 
forget  if  possible  the  passions  that  make  or  unmake  those 
who  wander  amid  the  ceaseless  turmoil  in  the  great  stream  of 
human  life  that  started  with  the  beginning  of  our  race  and 
flows  unceasingly  from  the  past  to  an  eternity  in  an  indefinite 
future,  to  which  we  go  joyously,  or  plod  like  beasts  for  a 
few  moons.  Then  we  vanish  like  bubbles  to  give  place  to 
others  as  frail,  as  hopeful  as  ourselves." 

"You  have  learned  something  up  here;  you  have  time  to 
think,"  she  said  wistfully.  "Do  you  not  think  there  has 
been  something  left  out  of  the  great  plan  of  the  universe?" 


344  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said,  strangely  interested. 

"Do  you  not  think  if  God  cared — about  women  at  least — 
he  might  have  arranged  it  in  such  a  manner  that  we  could 
profit  by  our  mistakes?  That  if  there  is  anything  after 
death,  save  oblivion,  it  would  have  been  so  easy  for  those 
who" — she  paused  a  moment,  gave  a  little  cough  to  suppress 
a  sob  that  involuntarily  escaped  her — "who  have  solved  the 
mystery  and  would,  out  of  the  love  which  could  not  die,  no 
matter  how  happy,  in  a  possible  heaven — leave  it  all  if  God 
so  willed,  and  come  back  for  a  little  moment  to  warn,  to  tell 
us,  if  sin  or  wrong  threatened?" 

I  was  so  astonished  for  the  moment  that  I  knew  not  what 
to  say.  In  the  instant  her  face  changed;  she  smiled  and  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  this  is  not  a  place  for  theological  dis 
cussions,  but  somehow  you  drew  me  on  without  thinking.  I 
only  arrived  today,  and  came  up  the  trail  for  a  quiet  hour." 

"For  which  I  thank  you,  and  your  songs — you  cannot  know 
how  they  impressed  me ;  yours  is  a  voice  which  you  should  be 
thankful  for — it  is  a  gift  few  possess." 

"Thank  you;  I  was  scarcely  conscious  I  was  singing,  and 
I  thought  I  was  alone  on  the  hills." 

"And  I,  too,  thought  I  walked  the  path  alone,"  I  replied. 

"The  path  alone!"  she  almost  gasped,  and  her  face  grew 
deathlike  in  its  pallor. 

"Yes;  is  there  anything  so  remarkable  about  it?  There 
are  no  wild  beasts,  I  think,  in  the  vicinity;  there  are  bears 
farther  up,  but  not  here." 

The  color  came  back  into  her  face,  and  she  smiled 
piteously. 

"I  think  I  am  tired.  Pardon  me;  1  am  not  very  strong 
and  will  return  to  the  hotel  and  rest.  Thank  you,  I  am  all 
right  now;  do  not  hurry  on  my  account." 

And  she  went  hurriedly  down  the  path.  I  thought  she 
wished  to  return  alone,  so  loitered  on  my  way.  I  shall  close 
this  letter,  now  that  the  day  is  ended,  but  will  say  among  a 
number  of  letters  received  there  are  two  notes  from  Bert. 
Will  give  you  extracts  as  usual  that  you  may  know  how  runs 
the  comedy: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  345 

"My  sunshine;  I  am  so  glad  that  I  have  coined  a  name 
that  even  thus  faintly  explains  the  light  you  have  brought 
into  my  heart  and  into  my  life.  I  love  you,  I  worship  you, 
my  sunshine,  my  magnolia,  my  love,  my  dear  heart !  Know 
there  is  one  man  7^hose  devotion  to  you  is  intense — a  part  of 
whose  existence  it  is  to  worship  you ;  do  not  condemn  him  to 
despair." 

"Your  very  short  note  came.  I  read  and  reread  it.  It 
was  sweet  to  have  a  line  from  you,  especially  as  it  has  seemed 
such  ages  since  I  looked  upon  your  dear  face  and  into  those 
inspiring  eyes.  I  do  not  understand  the  mysterious  influ 
ence  that  welds  our  souls.  I  only  know  that  it  exists;  I  only 
know  the  moments  of  rapture  I  spend  in  your  presence.  I 
only  know  how  slowly  passes  the  time  when  away  from  you. 
I  only  know  how  I  long  to  see  you,  and  how  I  anticipate  the 
time  when  I  can  be  with  you  always,  and  feel  that  nothing 
can  ever  separate  us.  Life  has  not  so  many  bright  sides  that 
I  can  afford  to  neglect  this,  the  brightest  of  them  all.  Not 
always  are  we  content  if  given  the  things  we  wish  for;  but 
sometimes  we  are,  I  know.  It  is  our  nature  to  aspire  to  the 
unattainable.  When  gained,  it  ceases  to  be  the  unattainable, 
it  is  true;  yet  the  soul  is  never  satisfied;  its  hunger  is  never 
satiated;  its  thirst  is  never  quenched,  and  I  think  it  well  that 
it  is  so.  Yet  this  cannot  be  true  of  congenial  companion 
ship.  It  brings  content  while  ever  yearning  for  more.  It  is 
satisfied,  yet  only  so  when  the  measure  of  its  hope  is  filled. 
Keep  the  cup  brimming  and  running  over,  and  the  human 
heart  has  found  its  earthly  paradise !" 

The  unattainable  earthly  paradise,  Edith  dear;  what  mad 
star  was  in  conjunction  with  Venus  at  his  birth?  He  had  the 
opportunity  for  an  earthly  paradise,  and  lo !  the  result. 
"When  gained  it  ceases  to  be  the  unattainable."  Yes,  and  the 
desirable,  also,  my  ardent  Eros. 

A  later  note  says:  "I  had  my  grip  packed  to  come  to  you 
when  fate  intervened;  but  it  shall  not  be  for  long,  if  it  be 
within  the  power  of  human  effort.  The  delay  is  great,  and 
the  time  since  I  last  saw  you  seems  like  a  thousand  years. 
Will  the  absence  make  your  sweet  self  any  sweeter  when  I 
meet  you  ? 


346  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"No,  I  did  not  flatter  you  at  all.  I  have  often  seen  you 
look  well,  but  never  so  beautiful  as  that  last  evening.  You 
looked  like  a  queen  in  your  beauty.  Your  face  was  like 
marble — white  without  the  horrid  powder  that  disfigures  so 
many.  Yet  it  was  not  a  colorless  white.  Your  toilet  was  in 
perfect  taste,  that  altogether  1  stood  astounded!  Did  you 
not  read  it  in  my  eyes?  When  I  passed  on  to  others  they 
looked  so  tame  and  artificial  and  unattractive,  that  your 
vision  in  my  memory  grew  brighter.  Whenever  I  shall  think 
of  you,  I  shall  remember  you  as  you  stood,  beautiful  and 
peerless,  that  night.  Unless,  indeed,  on  some  future  occa 
sion,  you  shall  surpass  yourself  and  present  a  yet  more 
fascinating  picture.  Yet  I  do  not  see  how  that  could  well  be. 

"My  life  pursues  the  same  dull  and  uneventful  routine. 
My  time  I  spend  chiefly  with  my  books.  I  often  wish  for  a 
companion,  for  it  is  dull  reading  or  thinking  by  one's  self, 
and  wish  that  you  were  with  me.  How  long  must  it  be  ere 
I  can  see  you  when  I  will,  be  with  you  always,  have  the  same 
sweet  joys,  and  follow  the  same  delightful  pursuits?  Not 
long,  I  hope.  And  in  anticipation  of  that  happy  day,  I  live, 
endeavoring  to  content  myself  with  prophetic  pleasures. 

"And  now  one  more  sweet,  but  tiresome,  perhaps,  to  you, 
reiteration  of  my  love,  my  devotion  to  you.  Why  heap  coals 
of  fire  upon  my  head  by  your  constant  doubts?  Why  will 
you  continue  to  say  such  unkind  things  to  me?  Either  I  do 
not  comprehend  your  language,  or  else  your  letter  has  some 
of  the  most  cruel  thrusts  conscionable.  I  cannot  and  will  not 
think  you  mean  it  all,  and  am  determined  that  you  shall 
believe  and  know,  for  I  shall  convince  you  of  my  devotion. 
The  enforced  absence  has  driven  me  to  desperation.  1  will 
prove  to  you  how  true  my  poor  heart  has  been  to  you.  I 
know  myself  better  than  the  world  knows  me.  And  if  there 
is  one  trait  of  character  stamped  more  indelibly  upon  my 
nature  than  another,  it  is  constancy  to  those  I  love.  When 
ever  you  can  believe  thoroughly  in  me,  you  will  have  no  such 
fears  as  you  now  entertain  regarding  my  love." 

My  dear  Edith,  this  has  reached  the  limit  of  endurance; 
I  must  end  this  farce.  Not  for  Ruth's  sake  can  I  endure  to 
keep  up  a  correspondence  or  a  semblance  of  friendship.  I 


FROM   THE   WORLD  347 

would  hate  myself  had  I  indulged  in  a  flirtation  or  been  proud 
of  my  poor  conquest,  if  it  is  one,  as  many  would  delight  in. 
What  I  have  done  has  been  for  friendship's  sake  and  to  try 
to  teach  a  lesson  to  the  man  who  could  so  cruelly  desert  his 
wife.  Had  he  be^n  a  man  who  could  love  deeply  or  lastingly, 
I  would  scorn  myself  for  the  slight  encouragement  I  have 
given  him,  as  his  letters  prove,  though  he  has  the  assurance, 
I  think,  to  believe  that  I  have  been  waiting  for  renewed 
expressions  of  his  devotions. 

1  have  been  careful  to  send  you  copies  of  all  letters  of  any 
importance,  and  equally  careful  about  receiving  him  in  my 
home.  Have  had  auntie  or  someone  else  always  present 
when  he  called.  I  have  thought  of  possible  contingencies, 
and  except  a  horseback  ride  and  some  walks  at  the  Canon,  we 
have  never  been  alone.  This  has  seemed  to  exasperate  him, 
but  there  has  been  some  trivial  excuse  always.  I  must  write 
to  Ruth  soon,  and  I  do  not  know  what  to  say.  She  must  not 
know  of  his  make-believe  passion  for  me.  It  would  hurt  her. 
I  think  he  has  no  love  for  her  in  his  heart.  If  he  has  seen  or 
spent  any  time  with  the  one  she  fears,  I  have  not  been  able  to 
ascertain.  Do  I  hear  you  give  a  sigh  and  say,  "Glad  the 
letter  is  finished?"  AlLEEN. 

"*****!  laid  my  plan 

And  childlike  chose  the  weaker  side; 

And  ever  have,  and  ever  will, 

While  might  is  wrong,  and  wrongs  remain." 

My  Dear  Edith:  I  must  send  another  letter  at  once.  I 
feel  like  one  of  the  moving  figures  in  a  bioscope.  There  has 
been  such  a  rush  of  events  in  my  life  since  I  wrote  you  that  I 
feel  in  my  mental  state  a  yearning  for  the  quieting  influence 
of  your  dear  self.  If  only  you  were  here !  Aren't  you  a  bit 
weary  of  wandering?  Wouldn't  you  love  to  be  here  in  my 
own  cozy  room,  where  you  well  know  the  world  at  large, 
even  the  angel  of  the  household,  auntie,  does  not  intrude 
without  special  invitation? 

We  would  rest  on  the  divans  and  cushions,  wrap  the  warm 
Japanese  kimonos  about  our  forms,  while  breathing  incense, 
and  the  aroma  of  coffee  I  learned  to  brew  while  among  the 
Turks.  We  would  sip  the  coffee  and  Orient  ourselves  while 


348  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

we  told  each  other  tales  that  would  be  of  unbounded  interest 
to  a  great  many  of  our  friends,  if  they  could  only  hear. 

I  mean  my  Turkish  room,  modeled  after  one  I  saw  in 
Damascus.  I  gaze  now  and  then  at  a  fine  narghileh  on  a 
stand  and  wish  that  I  could  smoke !  Wouldn't  your  mother 
be  horrified  at  the  thought?  Auntie  wondered  why  I  had 
such  a  "thing"  put  in  my  room.  I  told  her  it  might  be  useful 
some  time,  if  1  ever  married  a  man  who  smoked.  It  would 
be  appropriate  and  ready.  She  sniffed  imaginary  smoke  and 
said: 

"You  expect  to  marry  and  bring  your  husband  here?" 

"Certainly,"  I  said,  "I  shall  never  give  up  my  home  for 
any  man — why  should  I?  It  is  mine,  and  if  I  must  lose  my 
name,  why  should  I  lose  all  that  is  dear?  If  the  man  I  love 
takes  me,  he  must  take  the  house,  too.  I  am  that  kind  of  a 
snail,  auntie;  I  carry  my  house  upon  my  back." 

At  any  rate,  I  am  now  looking  out  of  my  window  and  feel 
1  have  a  right  to  love  and  hold  fast  to  that  which  is  good.  I 
look  down  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  which  you  know  is  one 
of  the  highest  in  San  Francisco.  I  see  the  waters  of  the  bay 
crisp  and  sparkling;  and  the  great  ships  coming  and  going 
out  through  the  Golden  Gate.  The  gray  ocean  shows  mistily 
beyond,  and  the  beautiful  hills  rising  in  waves  up  from  the 
farther  side  of  the  bay  to  Mount  Tamalpais,  fairylike,  in  the 
yellow  gauze  veiling  the  summit.  And  then  I  fall  on  my 
knees,  Edith,  and  sobs  choke  me  for  a  while. 

Now  I  am  quiet  enough  to  write  you  after  the  storm !  I 
told  you  that  I  felt  there  must  be  an  end  to  the  correspondence 
and  the  seeming  friendship  I  had  for  Bert  Wilder,  and  that 
not  even  for  Ruth's  sake  could  I  longer  endure  his  letters, 
which  caused  me  so  much  disgust.  He  the  husband  of  my 
friend;  the  father  of  a  babe,  and  so  heartless  that  he  has 
made  no  inquiry  about  the  child.  He  doubtless  thinks  Ruth 
is  somewhere  in  the  State  taking  care  of  it,  if  not  at  Monte 
rey;  I  do  not  know.  At  any  rate  he  is  not  aware  of  the 
intimacy  of  Ruth  and  myself. 

I  have  not  been  at  home  to  him  since  my  return,  but  have 
been  deluged  with  notes,  and  have  sent  word  that  I  would 
see  him. 


FROM   THE    WORLD  349 

I  am  something  like  a  thermometer — am  writing  and  get 
ting  up  to  the  climax  by  degrees.  *  *  *  I  wrote  you 
the  foregoing  two  days  ago.  Last  night  I  arranged  for 
Wilder  to  come,  and  had  the  stage  set.  He  came,  looking 
handsome  enoug}^  to  capture  any  susceptible  woman. 

"I  am  so  delighted  to  see  you  back — it  has  been  ages  since 
I  have  seen  you;  you  have  been  away  so  long,"  he  said. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  phrases,  but  as  soon  as  possible  I 
asked  him  to  allow  me  to  tell  him  a  story. 

I  told  him  I  had  known  a  part  of  it  for  some  time;  that  a 
portion  of  it  I  would  tell  him,  as  it  concerned  some  friends 
of  mine.  Then  I  told  him  the  story  of  Ruth  and  himself. 
He  seemed  quite  interested,  interlarding  sentences  that  were 
not  complimentary  to  the  man.  At  last  I  told  him  that  I  hatf 
adopted  the  child  and  would  like  him  to  see  my  adopted  boy. 

"I  will  be  delighted,"  he  said. 

1  touched  the  bell  and  the  nurse  brought  in  the  child.  He 
is  a  beautiful  baby,  and  I  could  see  a  wonderful  resemblance; 
I  wondered  if  he  could.  Bert  was  complimentary,  and  said 
I  ought  to  be  proud  of  my  adopted  child. 

"But,"  he  asked,  "how  could  the  father  or  mother  give  up 
such  a  lovely  child?  You  did  not  tell  me  they  were  dead." 

I  signalled  the  nurse  to  withdraw,  then  said : 

"That  is  why  I  have  sent  for  you  tonight.  I  want  to 
know  the  how,  or  why,  of  several  things.  "How,"  I  asked, 
in  sudden  fury,  "could  you  treat  Ruth  Wilder,  your  wife,  as 
you  have?  And  I  would  like  to  know  who  is  the  mother  of 
this  boy  you  have  just  seen,  which  is  your  own  child,  and 
born  at  your  home  in  Monterey." 

He  grew  deathly  white  for  the  moment,  then  recovered 
himself  and  said: 

"So  Ruth  has  made  a  confident  of  you  and  you  have 
adopted  the  child  which  was  left  with  her?  It  is  kind  of 
you,  like  your  great,  generous  heart  to  do  so.  But  out  of 
your  generosity,  have  you  no  kindness  for  me  ?  I  felt  I  had 
no  love  for  Ruth,  and  in  order  to  save  her  the  shame  of  pub 
licity,  1  acted  as  I  did.  We  are  all  swayed  by  emotions  at 
times.  I  was  carried  away  for  the  time,  and  when  the  truth 
was  forced  upon  me  I  knew  not  what  to  do,  except  the  course 


3so  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

pursued.  I  did  not  want  the  girl  to  suffer  needlessly,  and 
felt  I  must  make  all  amends  possible." 

"Yes,"  I  broke  in;  "an  honorable  course  to  take  your 
mistakes  in  your  own  home  and  heap  sorrows  upon  the  head 
of  your  devoted  wife.  That  was  honorable  indeed!" 

"The  world's  scorn  would  have  been  harder  for  her,  I 
thought,  and  I  promised  the  girl  I  would  do  all  I  could  to 
right  the  wrong." 

"What  have  you  done  in  that  direction?  Have  you  tried 
to  get  a  divorce  and  marry  her,  and  give  your  boy  a  legitimate 
name  and  home?" 

"I  thought  I  might  at  the  time,  but  I  took  a  package  to  her, 
one  sent  in  my  care  by  her  adopted  mother,  the  night  I  re 
turned  to  Monterey  with  Ruth.  I  did  not  think  to  give  it  to 
her  until  I  put  her  on  the  train.  I  followed  later  on  in  the 
day,  and  though  I  went  repeatedly  to  the  place  where  we 
had  lived  and  where  she  was  to  stay  in  retirement  until  I 
could  get  a  divorce  and  marry  her,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  her." 

"What  was  her  name  before  she  assumed  the  one  Ruth 
knew,  Mrs.  Bertram?"  I  asked. 

"I  would  tell  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  you,"  he  said. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  continued:  "You  have  her  child  and 
mine.  I  know  you  would  never  divulge  the  secret.  I  did  not 
tell  Ruth,  but  it  might  be  as  well  for  you  to  know,  if  you 
have  adopted  the  child.  Her  name  is  Alice  Heaton.  Where 
she  is,  I  know  not." 

"Alice  Heaton!"     I  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Yes ;  why  ?  Do  you  know  her  ?  "  I  could  not  speak  for  a 
moment. 

"Know  her?  How  could  I  know  a  girl  like — like  the  one 
I  am  led  to  believe  she  must  be?  My  acquaintances  and 
friends  are  not—  I  stopped  for  a  moment  for  the  right 
word. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said;  "I  understand,  but  she  is 
not  quite  what  you  think — at  least  was  not  when  I  saw  her 
last." 

"Does  the  child  look  like  its  mother?"  I  asked. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  351 

"I  do  not  think  so.  She  has  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
and  is  very  beautiful;  in  fact  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever 
knew,  except  you,"  he  said  in  his  softest  tones. 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  I  said.  I  was  bewildered.  That 
young  girl  the  mother  of  the  child  in  my  nursery.  This  the 
father,  and  Ruth,  my  friend,  wandering  somewhere  in  the 
world — what  a  labyrinth  of  misery  and  the  heartless  cause 
of  it  all  sitting  in  my  presence  with  all  the  assurance  of  one 
who  thought  what  he  did  was  right,  no  matter  the  result. 

"But  I  do  mind,"  he  said.  "I  would  have  tried  harder  to 
find  Alice  and  perhaps  would  have  married  her  had  I  not  met 
you.  I  do  not  know;  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  It  is  not 
possible  for  me  to  love  Ruth,  or  to  live  with  her  longer,  and 
my  infatuation  for  Alice  seemed  to  die  as  soon  as  she  disap 
peared.  I  know  that  I  have  never  truly  loved  J3ut  you." 

I  started  up,  so  choked  with  indignation  and  disgust  that 
I  was  unable  to  speak  for  a  moment. 

"Hear  me,  Aileen;  you  must  and  shall.  I  have  waited  so 
long  for  this  hour.  I  acknowledge  that  I  have  not  treated 
Ruth  as  I  should;  but  am  no  worse  than  other  men.  I  know 
not  a  few  who  keep  up  more  than  one  establishment ;  and  the 
wife  is  fully  aware  of  it,  but  would  rather  live  and  enjoy  the 
distinction  of  her  husband's  name  than  be  known  as  a  divorced 
wife.  I  felt  I  could  not  have  the  public  know  of  my  indis 
cretion  or  have  Ruth  endure  the  thought  of  my  divided 
attention.  It  was  best  to  end  it  at  once,  and  I  was  candid 
enough  to  tell  her." 

"Yes,  so  I  understand,"  I  managed  to  say. 

"1  thought  you  would,  and  that  is  why  I  am  telling  you  all; 
I  want  you  to  think  and  know  that  I  am  keeping  nothing 
from  you.  I  love  you  so  dearly  that  I  want  to  bare  my 
inmost  thoughts  to  you,  and  I  tell  you  again  that  you  are  my 
life,  my  hope,  my  all !  That  I  cannot  live  without  you.  With 
you  and  your  love,  I  may  be  able  to  retrieve  my  mistakes. 
Ruth  does  not  care,  her  affections  are  not  deep,  and  the 
mother  of  the  boy  does  not.  At  first  she  thought  she  could 
not  give  up  the  child;  but  I  told  her  she  must  for  the  time 
being,  that  after  we  were  married  we  could  adopt  the  boy 


352  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

and  no  one  would  be  wiser.  But  she  evidently  has  forgotten 
father  and  son. 

"Dear  Aileen,  out  of  the  greatness  of  your  heart,  you  who 
have  taken  the  child  into  your  home,  can  you  not  take  me 
into  your  heart  also?  Let  me  be  safe  in.|'our  love,  darling; 
safe  with  my  sunshine,  my  star,  my  guardian  angel!  Tell 
me  you  love  me  a  little.  I  have  lived  on  the  thought,  and 
the  hope,  though  your  letters  and  your  modesty  have  pre 
vented  any  expression  that  has  been  satisfying  to  my  heart. 
I  feel  that  the  decisive  moment  has  come.  1  am  pleading  for 
forgiveness  of  my  errors  and  indiscretions.  Help  me  to 
retrieve  the  past,  and  to  be  all  I  desire  to  be  in  your  eyes.  I 
can  and  will  be,  with  your  love,  my  star  of  hope,  my  heart's 
best  and  only  love." 

The  decisive  moment  had  come  and  the  sacred  vial  of  my 
wrath  frothed  up  like  a  well  shaken  bottle  of  champagne.  1 
cannot  tell  you  all  that  I  said.  It  has  been  the  regret  of  my 
life  that  I  did  not  have  a  phonograph  prepared  that  you 
might  hear  it  some  time.  But  I  told  him  why  I  had  taken 
the  child.  It  was  not  for  his  sake,  but  because  of  my  friend 
ship  for  Ruth,  my  friend,  whom  I  loved  nearly  as  much  as  I 
detested  him. 

"You,"  I  cried,  "ask  my  love?  You  who  are  unworthy  to 
speak  the  word  that  means  the  opposite  of  anything  your 
deceitful,  treacherous  nature  can  understand.  I  despise  you, 
who  are  a  thing  too  low  and  mean,  too  contemptible  for  any 
woman  to  honor  with  any  kind  of  respect  or  regard.  I 
undertook  the  task  at  poor  Ruth's  request — of  trying  to 
ascertain  if  you  still  loved  your  wife  and  the  mother  of  your 
dead  child.  And  with  the  vain  hope  that  you  would  recover 
from  your  infatuation.  Though  I  advised  her  as  to  the 
futility  of  it — told  her  even  before  I  knew  you  so  well  that 
you  were  unworthy  of  her  regard,  but  with  her  experience 
before  me,  I  could  not  believe  you  were  the  debased  wretch 
I  have  found  you.  How  I  have  laughed  over  your  protesta 
tions,  your  glittering  bubbles  of  a  semblance  of  love  which 
look  well  on  paper.  'Sunshine,'  indeed !  Well,  I  do  not 
want  the  poisonous,  night-shade  affection  you  offer,  despicable 
semblance  of  manhood  that  you  are !  I  have  done  what  I 


FROM   THE   WORLD  353 

have  done  for  a  weak,  defenseless  woman.  But  now,  1  want 
you  to  understand,  that  I  am  not  to  be  contaminated  by  your 
presence  any  longer.  Never  again  are  you  to  come  here  or 
speak  to  me.  I  shall  endeavor  to  make  your  wife  know 
what  you  are,  if  it  is  possible,  and  disillusion  her.  I  think 
I  can  when  I  show  her  your  letters,  but  perhaps  they  were 
copies  of  letters  you  wrote  to  her  and  the  other  one  whom  I 
met  in  the  mountains  and  learned  her  name,  Alice  Heaton, 
who,  if  appearances  count,  is  suffering  for  her  folly." 

I  paused,  out  of  breath,  I  was  so  exasperated!  Really, 
Edith,  I  had  not  thought  the  wretch  would  tell  me  all  of  his 
vileness,  and  then  in  the  same  breath  ask  me  to  help  him  share 
it.  He  had  shrunken  down  in  a  chair  while  1  was  talking  and 
pouring  out  my  indignation  in  more  words  than  I  can  write 
you.  When  I  stopped  he  arose — he  was  trembling,  whether 
with  shame  or  anger  I  knew  not.  He  turned  his  eyes  upon 
me  and  there  was  such  a  baleful  light  that,  strong  as  I  am 
physically,  and  not  a  coward  at  heart,  either,  I  felt  a  chill 
strike  me  like  an  icy  breath. 

"So,  you  have  been  amusing  yourself  with  me  all  these 
months?"  he  said. 

"If  you  so  term  it,"  I  answered.  "The  farce  of  make- 
believe  love  is  not  a  copyright  for  you  alone,  is  it?" — my 
courage  coming  back  with  full  swing. 

"I  have  had  one  thought,  one  hope,  while  enduring  your 
presence  and  fumigating  your  malodorous  expressions  of 
undying  love — on  paper — for  I  have  had,  besides  enjoying 
the  absurdity  of  it,  the  thought  that  if  you  cared  for  me  in  the 
least,  that  I  was  having  a  little  bit  of  revenge  for  what  you 
have  made  Ruth  suffer,  and  I  hoped  for  revenge  also  on  the 
heartless  woman  whom  I  thought  could  desert  her  child.  She 
has  redeemed  herself  in  my  eyes,  and  no  matter  what  her  life 
may  be,  however  deeply  she  may  drink  the  dregs  of  sin  or 
shame,  where  you  have  sent  her,  she  can  never  sink  so  low  as 
she  would  had  she  accepted  you,  the  debased  man  you  are,  as 
a  husband." 

"Oh,  Aileen!  I  cannot  believe  you,"  he  said.  The  fierce 
look  had  died  away  in  his  eyes.  "You  are  indignant;  you 
look  upon  things  differently  from  many  women.  You  are 


354  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

brave  to  undertake  what  you  have.  I  honor  and  respect  you 
for  what  you  have  done;  and  I  love  you,  no  matter  what  you 
say  or  think.  You  command  my  respect  and  my  admiration. 
You  are  the  first  woman  I  have  ever  had  to  beg  for  kindness 
and  love.  Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  which  has  been  tendered 
me  has  come  too  easily.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to 
gain  your  love,  your  respect.  Put  me  to  the  test.  I  will 
promise  anything  that  is  within  the  power  of  man  if  in  the 
end  you  will  give  me  a  kind  word,  and  let  me  live  in  the 
exquisite  happiness  of  your  presence." 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  take  Ruth  to  your  heart  again, 
if  I  could  forget  and  forgive?"  I  asked,  smothering  my 
contempt. 

uYes,"  he  replied  eagerly,  "I  will  do  so  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  if  only  I  may  come  to  you  now  and  then, 
and  have  the  only  consolation  left  in  life  for  me;  the  conso 
lation  of  looking  into  your  dear  eyes,  of  clasping  your  hand, 
or  the  ineffable  bliss  of  holding  you  in  my  arms  once  in  a 
while  as  my  recompense  for  a  duty,  hard  as  it  will  be.  But  a 
duty  that  shall  be  faithfully  kept  because  you  ask  it  and 
because  of  my  love  for  you,  whom  I  worship.  My  queen, 
my  strength,  my  hope !  Say  the  word  and  quickly." 

Edith,  dear,  I  do  not  know  that  I  was  ever  really  angry  in 
my  life  before.  Such  a  transport  of  rage  took  possession  of 
me  that  I  positively  forgot  that  I  was  not  Goliath.  I  only 
remember  that  I  sprang  forward  and  took  hold  of  his  collar 
and  forced  him  down  in  the  chair  beside  which  he  was  stand 
ing,  with  a  strength  I  did  not  think  I  possessed. 

"Do  not  stir!"  I  panted.  "I  think  I  will  kill  you  if  you 
do!  You  offer  to  take  your  wife  back,  if  you  can  carry  on 
clandestine  meetings  with  me,  you  scoundrel!  You  want  to 
lower  me  to  your  loathsome  level.  My  God  !  If  I  were  only 
a  man  that  I  might  choke  the  life  out  of  your  worthless  body ! 
If  I  only  had  a  brother  or  some  one  who  could  chastise  you  as 
you  deserve,  and  brand  you  for  the  coward  and  poltroon 
that  you  are." 

"Your  words  ought  to  be  sufficient,"  he  sneered,  as  1 
stepped  back,  and  he  arose  and  started  toward  the  door.  I 
saw  it  was  open,  though  the  curtains  were  partly  drawn. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  355 

It  rather  startled  me,  for  1  thought  the  nurse  closed  it 
when  she  went  out,  and  I  wondered  if  anyone  could  have 
overheard  us. 

"Now,  hear  me,"  he  said.  "You  have  had  your  innings 
and  my  time  has  come.  You  have  been  kind  enough  to 
receive  me,  you  have  taken  my  child  into  your  home.  A  few 
words  to  the  club  fellows  will  make  it  appear  as  your  own. 
In  fact  I  was  so  proud  of  your  letters  that  I  spoke  to  some  of 
them  about  your  friendship  and  our  correspondence.  Also 
your  invitation  to  accompany  you  to  the  Grand  Canon.  I 
believe  you  were  away  when  the  child  was  born.  No  one 
knows  who  the  mother  is.  The  rest  will  be  very  easy.  It 
would  be  a  good  thing  indeed  if  you  were  a  man.  The 
world  forgives  everything  in  a  man — but  has  little  or  no  for 
giveness  for  a  woman,  especially  a  woman  who  is  so  well 
known  and  envied  as  you  have  been.  It  will  be  a  sweet  morsel 
for  some  people  we  both  know." 

The  devilishness  of  the  man  struck  me  with  full  force.  He 
went  out  with  a  smile  on  his  face  that  was  positively  sickening 
in  its  diabolical  meaning,  and  I — being  only  a  woman  after 
all — fell  back  almost  senseless. 

Almost  my  first  thought  on  recovering  myself — it  was  not 
long,  for  I  am  not  hysterical,  and  fortunately  no  one  came 
in — was  something  I  had  written  either  to  you  or  Ruth,  I  do 
not  remember  which.  It  was  this:  "Greater  love  than  this 
hath  no  woman  than  she  who  perils  her  reputation  for  a 
friend."  All  this  have  I  done,  whether  wisely  or  not  I  cannot 
say.  Certainly  not  if  the  coward  does  what  he  threatens,  and 
I  think  he  is  the  man  who  will  revenge  himself  in  that  way 
if  he  can  gain  anything  by  it.  But  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
dear  world,  its  smiles  or  its  frown,  will  I  ever  see  or  talk  to 
him  again. 

If  there  are  men  and  women  who  believe  him  I  must  bear 
it  as  best  I  can.  I  shall  not  falter  or  let  Ruth  know,  and  I 
will  keep  the  child  until  she  returns.  It  will  be  doubly  hard 
to  have  it,  though  it  is  innocent  and  unconscious  of  its 
heritage.  But  with  my  whole  soul  abhorring  its  father,  my 
burden  is  not  light,  my  dear.  Were  I  selfish  I  would  say, 
come  back,  I  need  you !  I  am  woman  enough  to  want  to  lay 


356  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

my  head  on  your  heart  and  tell  it  all  over  again.  And  child 
enough  yet  to  want  to  kick  and  howl  if  only  I  might — if  I 
could,  be  sent  to  bed  supperless  and  forget  it  all  next  day — 
just  as  we  used  to  do.  It  would  be  worth  while,  wouldn't 
it,  dear?  AILEEN. 


XXXVIII 

"Sing   a    song   of    sunshine,    sing   it   from   the    heart, 
Life  is  filled  with  sweetness  when  love  forms  a  part; 
Sighs  and  tears  forever  such  a  song  will  drown; 
Brighten  up  the  pathway,  drive  away  the  frown; 
All  the  world  will  greet  you  as  you  pass  along, 
If  there's  smiles  and  sunshine  ever  in  your  song." 

It  is  springtime  in  Palestine — spring  that  comes  in  March 
as  it  does  in  California,  and  the  quaint  old  town  of  Jaffa  is 
redolent  with  the  fragrance  of  orange  blossoms,  which  are 
everywhere  about  the  dear  old  town.  The  trees  are  almost 
smothered  with  the  golden  globes  of  fruit,  and  the  masses  of 
white  blossoms.  It  is  very  pleasant  after  the  snow  and  cold 
bleak  winds  of  Constantinople. 

I  was  told  that  it  was  too  early  for  Palestine,  but  my  first 
experience  after  landing  at  Jaffa  was  that  the  south  winds  had 
come  and  spring  was  here  fragrant  and  sweet.  The  Med 
iterranean  was  quite  smooth  when  I  landed  at  Jaffa  which 
was  fortunate,  for  it  often  happens  that  it  is  so  rough 
here  that  landing  is  impossible.  There  are  no  break  water 
or  piers.  The  steamers  land  in  the  stream  and  small  boats 
transport  passengers  and  cargo  to  the  quay  through  some 
ugly  looking  rocks  encircling  a  small  bay  which  guards  the 
city.  There  are  only  one  or  two  openings  through  which 
the  small  boats  enter  into  Jonah's  Bay,  and  debarkation  is 
hazardous  at  all  times. 

One's  life  and  luggage  seem  to  be  of  little  consequence 
in  the  mad  effort  of  the  boatmen  to  secure  the  passengers  and 
their  belongings.  The  noise  and  confusion  among  the  rival 
companies  was  amusing  as  well  as  distracting,  but  we  wen. 
carried  or  hurled  through  the  jagged  reef  by  the  surf  and  the 
excellent  rowers,  into  the  bay  where  the  water  was  smooth 
enough  to  allow  me  to  breathe  and  look  up  at  the  ancient 
•city  of  Jaffa. 

357 


358  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

It  was  Joppa  when  it  was  a  colony  in  the  land  of  the  Phi 
listines,  and  the  name  meant  beautiful.  Whether  the  old 
name  or  the  new  the  situation  means  it,  though  the  town  has 
scarcely  lived  up  to  it.  In  the  days  of  Solomon  this  was  a 
port,  as  now,  for  Jerusalem.  As  far  back  as  the  building  of 
the  temple,  the  King  of  Tyre  sent  timber  from  Lebanon. 
The  old  myths  cling  about  the  walled  city  and  the  bay. 
Andromeda,  the  sea  monster,  and  Perseus  still  live  in 
history  and  painting.  A  point  of  rocks  was  shown  me  by 
my  dragoman  as  being  the  identical  place  where  Andromeda 
was  chained.  Here  also  Jonah  had  his  little  tussle  with  the 
whale  which  lasted  for  three  days. 

There  is  much  that  is  mythical  about  the  old  place  that 
was  destroyed  and  rebuilt  time  and  again.  The  Romany 
Cestius,  Vespasian,  the  Crusaders,  a  brother  of  Saladin, 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  were  all  interested  in  various  ways. 
Now  it  is  a  prosperous  town  for  the  exports  are  large,  and 
it  is  here  the  thousands  of  Pilgrims  land  yearly  on  their  way 
to  Jerusalem,  besides  the  army  of  travelers  who  help  to  make 
the  place  lively. 

Jaffa  is  high  above  the  sea  and  the  fair  plain  of  Sharon, 
rich  and  fertile,  stretches  from  it  to  Caesare,  Carmel,  and 
the  wavy,  undulating  lines  of  the  Judean  hills  show  in  the 
distance.  There  is  the  road  to  Gaza  and  another  to  Jerusa 
lem.  In  this  quaint  old  town  is  where  Dorcas  lived  and  Simon 
the  tanner  plied  his  vocation. 

There  is  one  daily  train  between  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem, 
which  makes  a  bit  faster  time  than  could  a  pair  of  good 
horses.  It  has  its  advantages,  however,  for  one  has  as  good 
a  view  of  the  country  as  from  a  carriage  or  on  horseback. 
The  views  were  exquisite  as  we  went  on  slowly  over  the 
lovely  plain  of  Sharon;  now  green  with  fields  of  grain  and 
clover,  where  the  shepherds  guard  their  flocks  and  play 
plaintive  melodies  on  reed  instruments  to  the  wandering 
sheep  and  lambs  frisking  in  the  warm  sunshine. 

The  warm,  sweet  winds,  laden  with  odors  of  almond,  peach 
and  orange  blossoms,  fanned  my  face  and  filled  the  car  with 
delicious  fragrance.  There  were  splashes  of  color  every 
where  amid  the  waving  grain,  and  by  the  wandering  streams 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


359 


SHEPHERDS     AND    FLOCKS     ON     THE     ROAD 
TO   JERUSALEM. 


the  great  crimson  blots 
showing  where  grew 
the  blood-red  rose  of 
Sharon  or  anemones. 
Enchanting  scenes 
were  on  every  hand; 
valleys  far  more  fertile 
than  I  had  expected  to 
find;  rough,  rugged 
hills,  and  the  blue  sea 
in  the  distance. 

I  remember,  among 
other  villages,  Ram- 
leh,  a  walled  city  once 
larger  than  Jerusalem, 
but  its  glory  has  de 
parted.  There  were 
fine  orchards  and  palm 
trees  growing  in  the 
vicinity.  The  soil  is 
exceedingly  fertile.  I 

look  and  think  of  the  songs  of  Solomon,  for  indeed  the  sun 
had  looked  upon  them. 

Winter  had  broken,  the  cold  winds  were  not  felt  and  the 
rose  of  Sharon  gladdened  the  eyes.  Walled  in  were  the 
gardens  of  Judea,  covering  the  sunny  slopes,  and  the  wan 
dering  winds  carried  the  breath  of  flowers  and  the  songs  of 
birds  to  the  sleeping  sea  below. 

The  road  leaves  the  plains  and  enters  the  arid,  stony  hills, 
and  high  on  a  rocky  cliff  I  was  shown  a  cave  where  Samson 
lost  his  hair.  We  paused  at  Bittir,  or  Bethor  of  the  Bible, 
where  was  the  siege  which  lasted  three  years,  and  the  thou 
sands  slain  were  so  great  that  it  was  said  the  blood  of  the 
Jews  reached  to  the  nostrils  of  the  horses  and  flowed  down 
to  the  sea.  The  hills  looked  bare  and  desolate;  no  shrubbery, 
and  but  little  grass  is  seen.  A  few  gnarled  olive  trees  grow 
in  the  ravines.  Then  we  came  to  the  plain  of  Rephaim, 
where  the  boundary  between  Judea  and  Benjamin  ran;  but 
more  memorable  for  the  rout  of  the  Philistines  by  David. 


360  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Walls,  towers,  rounded  domes,  flash  before  my  eyes,  and 
we  are  in  Jerusalem !  Only  a  glimpse  and  my  dragoman  has 
taken  me  out  of  the  strange,  seething  crowd  and  the  babel  of 
unknown  tongues,  to  a  carriage,  and  1  am  driven  over  a 
smooth  road  and  into  the  city  through  the  famous  Jaffa  Gate. 

How  different  it  seems  to  the  city  of  my  imaginings !  The 
arrival  by  train  was  prosy  and  commonplace,  but  comfortable 
in  its  way.  I  found  the  hotel  where  I  stopped  modern  and 
good,  so  the  necessities  of  life  were  easily  obtained  in  the  old, 
old  city. 

With  what  conflicting  ideas  and  confused  impressions  I 
wandered  through  the  city  of  my  dreams.  A  city  that  since 
my  Sunday  school  days  had  not  been  to  me  like  any  other 
earthly  city.  But,  while  I  was,  during  my  stay,  disillusioned 
in  many  respects,  the  interest  never  wavered.  And  there  was 
little  disappointment  in  all  the  various  places  I  visited.  The 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  of  absorbing  interest;  but  it 
is  galling  to  see  the  Moslem  custodians  at  the  entrance  drink, 
smoke  and  jest  at  the  Pilgrims  who,  footsore  and  weary, 
prostrate  themselves,  kiss  and  weep  over  the  Stone  of  Anoint 
ment,  where  the  body  of  Christ  was  laid.  It  is  sad,  too,  that 
to  these  scoffers  are  entrusted  the  keys  of  the  church.  To  no 
one  sect  of  Christians  worshipping  under  the  roof  can  the 
keys  be  given,  so  bitter  is  their  hatred  of  each  other. 

Feuds  have  been  engendered  among  the  different  religious 
sects  for  possession  of  the  various  relics  within  these  walls. 
Above  the  shrines  burn  the  lamps  of  Greeks,  Copts,  and 
Latins,  and  peace  perforce  rests  here. 

In  the  center  of  the  rotunda  is  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  Here 
the  holy  fire  issues  on  Easter  Eve.  Oriental  Christians  remove 
their  shoes  before  entering.  But  we  were  not  expected  to 
do  so.  We  entered  a  small  chapel  and  descended  into  a 
cavern,  where  are  places  in  the  hewn  rock.  There  is  one 
lined  with  marble,  said  to  be  the  actual  sepulchre.  A  piece 
of  the  cross  and  the  stone  the  angel  rolled  away  was  found 
here.  Much  must  be  taken  with  the  faith  that  questions  not. 
So  we  go  from  one  sacred  spot  to  another,  on  and  on  until 
one  is  too  tired  to  think  or  dispute. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  361 

This  church  is  supposed  to  cover  the  ground  where  Joseph 
of  Arimathea's  Gardens  were.  The  fable  of  the  exact  center 
of  the  earth  where  Adam  was  created  is  told  to  me,  and  the 
spot  is  marked  by  a  ball,  my  dragoman  insisting  it  is  Adam's 
skull !  Not  mine  the  right  to  question — only  to  look  and 
wonder.  I  saw  the  footprints  of  Christ,  the  stocks  where 
his  feet  were  placed,  the  prison  where  he  was  bound,  where 
he  was  scourged,  and  the  place  where  Mary  received  the  body 
of  her  Son. 

A  network  of  suppositions,  of  traditions,  hangs  about  the 
place.  Adam  was  buried  here,  and  the  blood  of  Christ  flow 
ing  through  a  cleft  rock  touched  and  restored  him  to  life. 
Of  the  resurrected  Adam  tradition  tells  us  not.  The  place 
where  stood  the  three  crosses,  the  rod  of  Moses,  and  the 
innumerable  things  are  wearying. 

I  go  out  into  the  streets,  filled  with  a  moving,  pulsing  life 
that  is  not  mythical,  but  following  along  the  line  that  reaches 
back  into  the  dim  ages,  it  is  very  little  changed.  Through 
the  narrow,  stony,  stair-like  streets  I  see  the  donkeys  climbing 
as  I  have  seen  them  in  pictures,  even  as  they  climbed  through 
the  similar  streets  when  the  Infant  went  with  His  mother 
away  from  the  land  of  Herod. 

And  then  I  go  out  through  the  imposing  Damascus  Gate, 
with  its  towers  and  gray  battlements,  where  are  throngs  of 
people.  Bedouin  tents,  and  kneeling  camels  rest  there  or  take 
their  burdens  over  the  roads  with  noiseless  steps,  but  growling 
and  complaining  often  with  a  wondering  look  in  the  soft, 
liquid  eyes, — a  look,  too,  that  seems  longing  to  be  free  from 
the  wearying  crowds  and  the  heavy  loads.  A  lifting  of  the 
muzzle,  a  start  as  if  the  deserts,  the  palms  and  quiet  beyond 
the  hurry,  and  rough  grind  of  the  world,  might  be  reached; 
and  then  they  are  driven  on  and  the  camel's  dream  is  over. 
The  poor  beasts  kneel  before  their  often  brutal  keepers,  more 
ill  used  than  any  beast,  save  the  donkey,  in  the  world,  I 
think. 

Beyond  the  gate  is  the  valley  of  Kidron,  where  the 
Moslems  bury  their  dead  on  one  side,  and  the  Jewish  ceme 
tery  is  on  the  other.  On  the  road  leading  past  the  Golden 
Gate  is  Absalom's  Tomb,  which  is  piled  about  with  stones. 


362 


UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 


No  Jew  passes  the  spot  without  throwing  a  stone.  They 
remember  Absalom's  disobedience.  Back  of  this  is  the  Tomb 
of  Jehoshaphat,  the  pool  of  Siloam,  the  Valley  of  Hinnom, 
where  children  were  sacrificed  to  Moloch,  and  there  is  the 
Grotto  where  Jeremiah  wrote  his  Lamentations. 

Above  this  place  is  a  lonely  hill  called  Gordons  Calvary, 
the  place  where  He  suffered,  was  buried,  and  rose  again,  must 
ever  be  of  supreme  interest  to  all  believers.  It  seems  to  me 


DAMASCUS    GATE,    PORTE    DE    DAMASCUS. 

the  only  possible  place  for  the  tragedy  enacted  here.  The 
church  built  over  the  supposed  place  in  the  heart  of  the 
crowded  city,  a  city  larger  then  than  now,  could  not  have  been 
outside  the  walls  at  that  time. 

On  this  lonely  Calvary,  one  might  well  imagine  the  throngs 
who  watched  the  crucifixion.  Through  the  gates  came  those 
who  loved  Him,  following  the  form  bearing  the  cross  along 
the  Via  Dolorosa,  to  Golgotha.  One  has  visions  of  the  bril 
liant  concourse  of  high  officials  and  high  priests,  of  Agrippa 
almost  persuaded,  of  the  rabble  and  the  patient  face  of  Him 


FROM   THE   WORLD  363 

who  was  crucified,  and  the  poor  and  needy  whom  this  stranger 
looked  after. 

It  seems  to  me  there  has  not  been  much  change  in  their 
condition  since  the  crucifixion.  The  poor  are  in  the  city's 
streets,  persistent  and  insistent  as  of  old,  which  are  filled  with 
a  life  that  is  not  mythical,  but  follows  in  the  line  of  tradition. 

Along  the  streets  or  outside  of  the  walls,  places  are  shown 
me  that  somehow  seem  strangely  familiar.  So  I  feel  as  I  sit 
on  the  slopes  of  the  Mount  of  Olives  and  below  me  see  the 
road,  up  which  creep  the  lepers  to  sit  by  the  highway  and  cry 
with  piteous  pleadings  for  help.  The  solitude  is  perfect  on 
Olivet,  golden  shadows  waver  over  the  Judean  Hills.  Far  ii? 
the  distance  I  see  the  misty  outlines  of  the  Moab  Mountain^ 
and  like  a  great  gleaming  gem  the  Dead  Sea  flashes  and  burns 
in  the  clear  light.  The  valley  of  the  Jordan  is  of  emerald 
hue,  and  a  tiny  thread  glints  now  and  then,  showing  the  old 
river  hastening  to  lose  itself  in  that  sea  wherein  no  thing  of 
life  is  known. 

The  faint  twitter  of  birds  comes  from  the  olive  trees,  and 
far  above  in  the  blue  ether  are  vultures  sailing  or  poising  on 
wings  that  seem  never  to  move  or  quiver.  No  breath  of  wind 
touches  the  sleeping  palms  and  the  noise  of  the  city  is  not  here. 
The  magical  effect  of  silence,  of  nature,  is  enthralling.  The 
people,  the  churches,  and  the  bazaars  are  all  wearying. 
Sacred  as  is  the  dear  old  city,  her  walls  and  rough,  stony 
streets  and  the  suppositious  places  are  not  solacing.  Here  on 
the  hill  things  seem  as  though  they  might  be  but  little 
changed;  these  trees,  hoary  and  old,  stood,  perhaps,  and  saw 
the  scene  on  Calvary  over  and  beyond.  They  witnessed  the 
Transfiguration,  perhaps.  Farther  away  is  Nazareth,  and 
there  is  the  white,  gleaming  road  over  which  I  traveled  to 
Bethany  and  Jericho. 

I  remember  the  beautiful  day  when  1  drove  with  an 
especial  escort  provided  by  the  Government — a  sheik  with 
grave,  immovable  face,  which  seemed  unchangeable  until  I 
praised  his  beautiful  Arab  horse,  then  a  tenderness  stole  in 
his  eyes  that  were  until  then  fierce  and  gleaming. 

Jordan,  the  Dead  Sea!  The  Wilderness!  Mount  of 
Temptation !  The  exhausting  journey  over  the  alkaline 


364  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

plains  leading  to  the  Dead  Sea  I  well  remember.  Tents, 
from  which  peered  swarthy,  Bedouin  faces,  and  from  which 
little  brown  children,  with  no  more  clothing  than  the  angels 
wear,  ran  to  meet  us. 

Pilgrims  from  the  far  steppes  of  Russia  toiled  along  the 
road  to  rest  on  the  longed-for  Jordan.  Weary,  yet  hopeful, 
they  had  walked  from  Jaffa  and  Jerusalem.  The  faith  that 
was  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed,  the  faith  of  those  who  were 
guided  by  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  was  with  these  people. 
Christ  certainly  was  as  real  as  possible  to  these  Pilgrims  as  to 
those  of  old.  They  go  to  the  Jordan,  and  in  Jerusalem  they 
kneel  on  Calvary,  kiss  the  dust  His  feet  once  trod,  and 
grieve  by  Golgotha,  even  as  the  Jews  who  meet  and  wail  be 
side  that  vast,  torn,  gray  old  wall,  where  their  tears  seem  to 
give  life  and  moisture  to  the  frail  mosses  and  tender  green 
vines  growing  out  of  the  rifts. 

All  these  memories  come  to  me  and  I  am  loath  to  leave  the 
hill  and  go  back  to  the  crowds  and  the  dusty  city,  where 
water  is  so  precious  that  when  the  streets  are  sprinkled  it  is 
done  by  pouring  a  tiny  stream  from  pigskins  carried  about 
by  men.  Once  more  I  look  toward  Jericho  and  see  the  won 
drous  flush  of  rose  and  apricot  on  the  hills.  And  then  1  go 
down  among  the  masses. 

Armenians,  Greeks,  Syrians,  the  whole  world  of  men  clad 
in  strange  costumes;  the  veiled  women,  and  the  beggars,  per 
sistent  as  gadflies,  and  the  strange  mixture  of  races  greet 
me.  There  are  quaint  scenes  and  a  strange  gravity  of  the 
masses,  for  one  hears  but  little  of  song  or  laughter.  There 
are  no  places  of  amusement,  no  newspapers.  It  is  unlike  any 
other  city.  There  are  no  street  cars  with  ringing  bells,  yet 
therein  lies  the  charm. 

One  would  scarcely  wish  to  see  the  things  here  one  meets 
in  modern  cities.  The  Ecce-Homo  Arch,  the  Tomb  of  David, 
the  Room  on  Zion,  where  was  eaten  the  Last  Supper,  the 
place  where  Judas  lived  and  made  it  a  crime,  seemingly,  for 
men  to  greet  each  other  with  a  kiss;  where  Peter  lived  and 
proved  how  inconstant  a  man  can  be. 

Every  nook  and  corner,  every  street  and  wall,  is  associated 
with  the  past  that  is  sacred,  that  will  endure.  For  the  Holy 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


36S 


City  is  connected  with  the  past,  the  most  sacred  in  the  history 
of  the  world. 

One  of  the  most  quiet,  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful,  of 
all  places  in  Jerusalem,  is  the  magnificent  Mosque  of  Omar. 
Cairo,  Constantinople,  Moscow,  have  nothing  that  exceeds 


ECCE    HOMO   ARCH,  JERUSALEM. 


this  in  beauty,  in  magnitude  or  decorations.  The  immense 
dome,  the  arches  and  pillars  are  unequaled.  A  special  guard 
escorted  us  into  the  place  where  the  faithful  pray,  facing 
Mecca.  This  covers  the  sight  of  Solomon's  Temple.  Here 
the  sacrificial  stone  where  Abraham's  faith  was  tested 


is 


and  Isaac  escaped. 


366  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

When  Mohammed  went  to  heaven,  this  stone,  which  would 
cover  half  a  block,  rose  to  follow  him.  The  angel  Gabriel 
pushed  it  back  to  earth.  David,  Solomon,  Abraham,  and 
others  prayed  in  niches  underneath  this  stone.  An  imprint 
of  Mohammed's  head  is  shown,  proving  him  to  be  taller  than 
the  others,  the  stone  kindly  receding  in  one  place  for  him. 
It  cost  quite  a  sum  of  money  to  go  through  this  Moslem 
wonder,  but  it  is  worth  it.  Aside  from  the  legends,  the  chaste 
beauty  of  the  carvings  in  wood,  the  effect  of  coloring,  is  mar 
velous  in  richness,  the  light  falling  from  the  exquisite  windows 
high  up  in  the  dome,  down  upon  the  wonderfully  beautiful 
and  priceless  rugs  covering  the  floors.  Legends  and  traditions 
in  bewildering  confusion  greet  me  at  every  turn.  Mohammed 
declared  one  prayer  better  here  than  a  thousand  elsewhere. 

He  prayed  beside  the  rock  and  from  hence  he  went  heaven 
ward  on  his  steed  El-Burak.  The  Mosque  El  Aksa,  where  he 
received  his  revelation,  the  walls,  columns,  porches,  beggar 
description. 

I  leave  the  place  where  is  the  rock  whereon  was  written 
"Shem,"  the  great  and  unspeakable  name  of  God,  and  wander 
through  the  streets,  where  are  the  money  changers,  and  the 
bazaars,  where  the  owners  wait  in  placid  content  the  pleasure 
of  the  buyers.  We  ride  on  donkeys  through  and  around  the 
city,  that  is  never  without  interest. 

On  a  certain  day  I  drove  through  the  Jaffa  Gate,  where  are 
always  seen  the  throngs  of  people  passing  in  and  out  of  the 
walled  city,  over  the  road  where  went  the  three  Wise  Men; 
the  road  which  is  always  lined  with  people,  with  donkeys  and 
camels  heavily  burdened.  Flocks  of  sheep  and  goats  walk 
peacefully  along  the  way.  There  are  terraces  and  a  perfect 
network  of  stone  fences  lacing  and  interlacing  the  hill  slopes 
where  grow  the  vines  and  fruit  trees.  Peach  and  apricot  trees 
grow  here,  and  the  almond,  in  all  the  glory  of  white  and  pink 
bloom,  shower  the  blossoms  upon  the  ground  as  we  pass. 
All  the  tender  herbage  of  spring  gladdens  the  eyes  and  hearts 
of  these  people,  who  know  what  winter  means,  for  it  is  colder 
than  with  us  on  the  Pacific's  rim,  Jerusalem  and  Bethlehem 
being  over  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  level.  On  the 
road  we  passed  by  Rachael's  Tomb,  the  well  of  the  Magi,  and 


FROM   THE   WORLD 


a  lone  tree  is  shown  me  where  Judas  hanged  himself.  Then 
we  are  in  Bethlehem.  The  o)d  town  is  interesting.  One 
thinks  of  the  beautiful,  idyllic  story  of  Ruth,  and  my  heart 
goes  out  to  the  Ruth  we  know. 

1  will  pause  here  a  moment,  Aileen,  to  say  that  I  feel 
wicked  when  I  think  of  the  Ruth  we  know.  I  used  to  be  so 
angry  when  mama  held  her  up  to  me  as  an  example  for  me 
to  follow.  I  thought  once  she  cared  more  for  praise  and 
for  effect  than  to  be  her  natural  self.  I  think  I  misjudged 
her,  and  cry  "me  a 
culpa."  I  think  of  her 
sorrows,  and  hope  to 
make  amends  some 
time. 

I  look  on  the  places 
where  shepherds 
watched  their  flocks  by 
night,  and  the  story  is 
retold  again.  And  in 
some  caves  under  the 
sloping  hills  I  saw  the 
same  scenes  re-enacted 
in  the  gathering  of  the 
flocks  at  eventide,  the 
shepherds  with  sandals 
laced  with  leathern 
thongs,  clothed  in  gar 
ni  en  ts  of  sheepskin, 
guard  their  flocks  by 
day  and  night  as  has 

been  done  since  Christ  said,  "Feed  my  sheep."  How  easy 
it  is  to  understand  certain  things  in  the  Bible  when  one  visits 
the  Holy  Land.  The  herbage  now,  almost  at  its  best,  is 
scanty  and  sparse,  and  the  food  for  the  herds  is  a  thing  of 
care  and  anxiety  at  all  times. 

In  a  crypt  of  the  church  I  saw  the  manger  where  the 
Infant  foretold  was  born.  The  story  of  the  manger,  the 
stable,  the  babe,  the  star,  the  men  who  followed  it — who  has 
not  cherished  mental  pictures  of  them  from  early  childhood? 


THE   WELL   AND  ROAD   WHERE   WENT  THE  THREE 
WISE   MEN. 


368  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

It  was  disappointing  to  me  to  find  the  manger  of  today  lined 
with  white  marble,  with  a  toy  doll  and  rich  brocades  for 
hangings. 

Out  of  the  churches  and  away  from  the  cities,  in  the 
country,  one  can  imagine  there  has  been  but  little  change.  I 
saw  David's  well  and  his  cisterns,  which  have  lasted  probably 
all  these  thousands  of  years.  They  mean  much  here,  as  in 
Jerusalem,  where  there  are  no  aqueducts  or  water,  except  the 


COLONNADE  OF   THE    MOSQUE   OF   OMAR,    JERUSALEM,    PALESTINE. 

rain  that  falls  upon  the  roofs  and  is  collected  in  the  cisterns. 
Water  has  ever  been  the  crying  need  of  Jerusalem. 

Back  again  in  the  Holy  City,  and  from  the  battlements  I 
look  on  Bethany,  Olivet,  Gethsemane  and  its  old  gnarled 
olive  trees,  and  other  historical  places.  I  see  the  mountains 
rimming  the  Jerusalem  of  today.  The  sun  sinks  behind  the 
hills,  and  the  notes  of  the  Angelus  come  soft  and  tremulous 
from  the  sweet  sounding  bells,  mingled  with  the  muezzin's 
cry,  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer,  "No  God  but  God."  They 
call  through  the  calm  of  early  dawns,  and  subdued  stillness  of 
dim  evenings.  Whether  from  Christian  church  or  Moslem 


FROM   THE   WORLD  369 

tower,  the  cry  is  ever  the  same,  as  are  the  desires  of  the  heart. 
And  mankind  here  as  elsewhere  goes  on  through  life,  hoping, 
trusting  alike,  for  peace  and  happiness  beyond  the  grave. 


I  am  not  given  to  postscripts,  Aileen,  but  you  must  have 
one  with  this  letter.  I  cannot  wait  a  moment  to  tell  you  that 
Ruth  Wilder  and  Fred  Marshall  are  here  in  Jerusalem,  and 
that  I  came  face  to  face  with  them  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel 
this  evening.  I  literally  fell  upon  Ruth's  neck,  and  in  imag 
ination  treated  Fred  to  a  similar  embrace.  Next  to  you  and 
mama,  I  could  not  have  asked  a  greater  joy.  They  have 
just  arrived  with  a  party  of  friends,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  to 
join  them.  They  will  not  hear  of  anything  else,  and  it  can 
be  easily  arranged. 

I  positively  feel  rejuvenated,  even  in  this  city,  where  it  is 
proper  to  be  steady  when  one  starts  to  grow.  I  really  did  a 
deux  temps  in  the  hotel  lobby,  I  was  so  happy.  Ruth  is  look 
ing  fully  as  well  as  I  expected  to  see  her,  from  your  reports. 
Fred  is — well,  he  was  always  a  handsome  man,  you  know, 
better  looking  I  think  than  Frank,  who,  by  the  way,  returned 
very  hurriedly  to  California  without  telling  Fred  just  why  he 
deserted  him.  Not  another  word.  YOUR  EDITH. 


XXXIX 

"Prince,  be  you  wise  in  your  golden  prime; 

Live  you  and  love  while  pulses  flame, 
Till  careless  you  pass — sans  prose,  sans  rhyme — 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  you  came." 

I  am  dipping  my  pen  in  dreams,  and  am  wandering  in 
dreamland,  Edith,  a  land  from  which  I  pray  God  I  may 
never  awaken.  I  revel  in  the  sweetness  and  the  delirium  of 
my  dream  life.  Death  is  what  I  fear  now,  for  then  there  will 
be  no  fancies,  no  dear  possible  or  impossible  things — but  just 
forgetfulness  of  all,  of  every  one  I  know,  of  those  I  can  call 
my  own,  my  very  own.  But  then  I  have  faith  that  all  will 
be  made  right  and  that  God  will  not  let  us  be  lost  from  our 
loved  ones  through  all  eternity. 

But  life  is  so  sweet  to  me  now  that  I  do  not  want  to  dream 
or  think  of  anything  except  life  and  its  treasures.  I  have 
come  out  unscathed,  I  trust,  from  my  recent  nightmare  of 
which  I  wrote  you.  Perhaps  it  is  worth  while,  after  all,  to  be 
faithful  to  our  friends  for  friendship's  sake,  which  some 
times  costs  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

I  had  time  to  think  it  over  for  several  days  after  I  wrote 
you  and  I  dreaded  more  than  I  can  tell  you  the  effect  of 
what  that  Mephistopheles  might  do.  1  have,  as  you  know, 
been  rather  proud  of  my  name  and  position,  and  while  I  knew 
that  I  had  done  no  wrong,  one  cannot  always  tell  where  a 
falsehood,  well  sown  and  watered  by  cups  of  tea  and  other 
liquids  may  spread  its  noxious  roots.  And  more  than  ever  I 
feared  the  spread  of  the  canker  when  Frank  Lindsay  sent  up 
his  card.  I  knew  he  and  Bert  Wilder  belonged  to  the  same 
club,  but  I  did  not  know  that  Frank  had  returned  from 
Mexico.  He  had  written  rather  often  and  I  thought  he 
intended  going  to  Egypt,  at  least  his  letters  intimated  as 
much. 

I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  longed  to  tell  him  all  my 
troubles.  You  know  we  have  known  each  other  since  we 

370 


FROM   THE   WORLD  371 

were  very  little  tots,  and  I  have  gone  to  him  with  many  a 
little  sorrow  in  tenderer  years.  Well,  dear,  after  we  had 
chatted  a  while,  he  spoke  of  Ruth  and  told  me  how  they  had 
traveled  together  for  a  time  and  spoke  of  her  sorrow  and 
grief;  and  said  something  also  about  our  friendship. 

"I  always  thought  you  were  one  of  Ruth's  best  friends, 
Aileen,"  he  said,  in  a  rather  peculiar  tone. 

"And  what  weighty  argument  has  caused  you  to  say  you 
thought  so — why  not  say  you  think  or  you  know  I  am  her 
friend?" 

uOne  can't  always  be  certain — we  may  think  things,  until 
proofs  come  to  drive  fixed  beliefs  to  the  winds." 

It  flashed  across  my  mind  in  an  instant  that  Bert  Wilder 
had  put  his  threat  into  execution,  and  the  thought  of  my 
lifelong  friend  whom  I  trusted  even  as  I  do  your  honest 
heart,  Edith,  seared  my  soul. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  while  I  felt  the  blood 
leave  my  face  despite  every  effort. 

"I  have  heard  that  Wilder  visited  you  at  your  country 
home;  that  he  was  with  you  on  a  trip  to  the  Grand  Canon." 

"Well,  and  what  else?"  1  asked.  My  heart  seemed  ready 
to  burst. 

"  Is  it  not  so  ?  "  and  he  smiled.     It  stung  me  to  the  quick. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  confess,  Aileen,  you,  the  pure,  honest  girl  I 
have  known,  since  you  were  a  dear  loving  little  sweetheart 
of  mine,  that  you  have  been  following  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  many — in  the  common  rut,  I  might  say,"  he  said  slowly. 
"You  encouraging  a  married  man — the  husband  of  your  best 
friend,  one  who  trusts  you,  and  believes  in  you  as  in  herself. 
What  am  I  to  believe?" 

'  'I  thought  I  should  die,  Edith,  to  have  Frank  doubt  me. 
It  was  too  much  to  endure.  I  had  never  thought  it  possible 
that  he  could  come  to  me  like  this,  even  had  Wilder  carried 
out  his  threats.  I  cared  more  for  Frank's  good  opinion  in 
the  moment  I  knew  it !  It  burst  upon  me  like  a  flash  of  light 
ning — than  the  whole  world  besides.  And  with  the  knowl 
edge  came  the  grief  and  anger  that  he  should  doubt. 


372  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"Believe  what  your  friend  and  close  companion — Bert 
Wilder — says.  All  and  more!  You  haven't  been  told  the 
half  of  it!"  Righteous  indignation  flamed  in  my  face,  for 
I  felt  it  was  burning.  Again  he  smiled. 

"So  you  confess?" 

"All  and  more  when  you  have  donned  your  robes  of 
priesthood!"  I  flashed  back  at  him. 

"I  cannot  wait,"  he  added.  "I  want  to  hear  from  you 
and  you  only,  and  now.  I  have  had  such  unbounded  faith 
in  you,  your  noble  womanhood,  your  pure  life,  for  I  have 
watched  you  closer  than  you  know,  perhaps.  I  have  placed 
my  faith  in  womankind  in  your  keeping." 

"Well,  you  can  find  cold  storage  elsewhere.  I  am  not  going 
to  be  a  receptacle  or  an  example  any  longer.  Find  someone 
else  who  is  worth  the  effort;  even  though  we  have  been 
friends,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  are  like  the  rest  of  your 
sex.  It  is  the  Adam  in  you  ever  ready  to  blame  the  woman." 

I  paused,  my  whole  frame  trembling,  though  I  kept  my 
fingers  clutched  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair  that  it  might  not 
be  observed. 

"Was  he  not  here  two  or  three  days  ago?  Did  you  not 
receive  him  here  alone,  and  for  a  long  time?  How  long — 
do>  you  remember?  " 

"Yes,  he  was  here,  and  I  sent  for  him !  And  the  time — 
well,  what  does  it  matter  to  you?" 

"A  great  deal,  especially  when  the  door  was  ajar,  and 
anyone  who  happened  in  the  outer  room  could  see  and  hear." 

"You  did  not — you  would  not  dare  to — 

"To  listen?  Well,  I  did,  and  am  rather  glad  that  I  hap 
pened  here  at  the  particular  moment  I  did,  though  I  thought 
it  best  not  to  declare  my  presence  at  that  time." 

The  thought  that  he  had  heard  and  knew  the  truth  was 
the  traditional  feather,  at  least  the  truth  moulted  one  at  that 
moment  which  brushed  away  something  like  a  film  from  my 
eyes  and  I  seemed  to  see  Frank's  eyes  smiling  into  mine  with 
a  mischievous  light;  and  another  light  also  new  to  me. 

"Aileen,  let  us  end  this  farce.  Don't  you  know,  sweetheart, 
I  have  always  loved  you,  though  I  have  been  afraid  you  did 
not  care.  But  looking  into  your  troubled,  angry  eyes,  some- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  373 

thing  tells  me  you  do  care  a  little  and  I  think  you  need  me 
now,  don't  you  ?  Come — " 

He  opened  his  arms  and  I  knew  I  needed  his  care — his 
love,  and  that  I  had  waited  for  it  as  the  one  needful  thing 
all  my  life,  and  that  heaven  had  indeed  been  kinder  than 
I  deserved. 

I  know  now  that  love,  the  flower  and  fruit  of  the  best  and 
highest  in  life,  is  mine.  It  is  but  the  fulfilling  of  the  law, 
even  as  of  old.  It  will  transform  not  only  myself,  but  the 
whole  world  for  me.  Of  it  I  feel  I  am  truly  born  again, 
and  I  know  too  well  that  all  of  my  life  worth  living  is  and 
will  be  fostered,  nourished  and  kept  pure  and  true  by  my 
great  love  for  Frank. 

Our  little  secrets  are  too  sacred  to  speak  of  Edith,  but 
we  are  to  be  married  at  once  and  go  to  El  Nido.  No  waiting 
for  a  needless  trousseau,  Frank  says,  and  his  vacation  is  not 
yet  ended.  He  has  confessed  that  he  came  home  because 
Ruth  confided  in  him  that  she  asked  me  to  help  her.  And 
he,  knowing  Wilder  so  well,  realized  the  danger  I  was  in 
and  hastened  home. 

He  has  told  me  since  that  he  saw  Bert  at  the  club  and 
invited  a  number  of  friends  to  dine  with  him.  After  the 
dinner  was  over  and  the  waiters  withdrew,  he  locked  the  door 
and  then  told  the  whole  story  to  them.  Bert,  the  coward  that 
he  is,  tried  to  bluster,  and  once  mentioned  my  name.  Frank 
said  : 

"If  you  mention  the  name  of  my  future  wife,  if  I  can 
gain  her  consent,  1  will  shoot  you — cowardly  cur  that 
you  are." 

Then  he  told  the  gentlemen  present  how  he  had  come  to 
call  upon  me  and  was  ushered  into  the  reception  room  and 
hearing  Wilder  mention  his  wife's  name,  he  paused  a  moment, 
uncertain  whether  to  withdraw  or  intrude.  Then  he  heard 
Wilder  say  that  "his  wife  did  not  care." 

"  'I  concluded  to  wait,  as  I  had  left  the  heart-broken 
woman  so  recently,'  I  said  to  them,  Aileen." 

Then  he  told  them  the  story  of  Wilder's  wife,  the  birth 
and  death  of  their  little  babe,  of  Bert's  neglect  and  indiffer 
ence,  how  he  seduced  a  young  girl;  and  then  to>  cap  his  infamy 


374  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

took  her  to  his  home  in  Monterey.  Then  with  a  made  up 
story  about  a  cousin  gained  the  sympathy  of  his  wife.  Frank 
told  them  of  Wilder's  brutal  conduct  to  her  and  his  desertion 
also,  and  his  heartless  conduct  toward  the  girl  later  on.  And 
told  them  also  how  I  had  taken  the  child  for  Ruth's  sake, 
trying  to  keep  the  separation  a  secret,  and  hoping  that  Wilder 
would  return  to  his  wife  in  time ;  and  imperiling  my  reputation 
for  Wilder's  wife,  who  was  my  friend,  whom  we  had  both 
known  and  loved  since  we  were  children;  also  of  his  dastardly 
offer  to  me. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  have  loved  Miss  Livingston  since 
we  played  together  as  children.  I  have  heretofore  hesitated 
about  declaring  my  love,  because  she  was  very  much  wealthier 
than  I,  so  a  foolish  pride,  perhaps,  held  me  back.  Now  my 
fortune  is  equal  to  hers,  I  think,  but  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would 
not  wait  longer. 

"I  was  never  so  proud  and  happy  in  my  life  as  when  I 
stood  a  day  or  two  ago  unnoticed  and  saw  her,  the  woman 
I  love,  in  her  outraged  womanhood  take  this  cur  by  the  col 
lar,  force  him  into  a  seat,  and  tell  him  that  the  regret  of 
her  life  was,  that  she  was  not  a  man  and  could  choke  the 
life  out  of  him.  You  can  imagine  how  I  felt,  how  hard 
it  was  to  restrain  myself,  but  a  thought  of  his  lying  tongue 
made  me  hesitate  for  her  sake.  I  followed  him  out  of  the 
house,  neither  he  nor  Miss  Livingston  the  wiser  for  the 
knowledge  I  had  gained.  Now,  gentlemen,  do  you  wish  to 
know  this  man  any  longer  as  a  friend  and  club  member?" 

uNo,  a  thousand  times  no !"  they  yelled.  And  a  lawyer 
present  stood  up  and  said: 

"Not  only  will  we  strike  him  off  the  list  of  our  friends, 
but  I  will  say  to  you,  friend  Frank,  and  for  your  champion 
ship  of  the  deserted  wife,  that  he  is  amenable  to  the  law  for 
seduction,  and  I  will  see  that  he  gets  the  full  benefit  unless 
he  leaves  the  State  at  once.  He  can  have  two  days  in  which 
to  say  good-bye  to  any  chance  acquaintance  he  may  meet." 

"You  ought  to  have  heard  the  yells,  Aileen,"  he  said,  "as 
I  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it.  He  went  out,  his  head 
bowed  with  shame,  his  frame  trembling  like  a  man  stricken 


FROM   THE   WORLD  375 

with  palsy.  I  think  he  will  trouble  you  no  more,  my  brave, 
impetuous  girl." 

Then  he  told  me  that  Alice  Heaton's  adopted  parents  were 
close  friends  of  Jack  Gordon,  and  he  found  out  that  Bert 
Wilder  had  seduced  the  girl  and  taken  her  away  before  she 
wras  eighteen.  She  had  written  to  the  Brownings  that  she 
was  married  and  her  name  was  Alice  Bertram.  A  short  time 
before  Browning  died,  it  was  ascertained  they  were  living  in 
a  secluded  cottage  on  the  heights  back  of  Oakland  and  Mrs. 
Browning  had  sent  a  package  to  Wilder  before  she  died,  but 
whether  the  girl  received  it,  Jack  did  not  know.  After 
Wilder's  return  to  the  city,  and  his  wife  disappeared,  Jack 
could  not  ascertain  if  Bert  ever  saw  the  girl  though  he  had 
put  detectives  on  Wilder's  track.  Mr.  Browning  had  asked 
Jack  to  try  to  find  the  girl,  who  was  not  legally  adopted, 
though  she  thought  she  was,  and  that  her  name  was  Alice 
Heaton. 

I  thought  again  of  the  girl  with  the  depths  of  sorrow 
in  her  eyes,  but  could  not  talk  about  her  just  then  to  Frank. 
I  thought  of  my  lucky  escape  and  I  said  to  Frank:  "What 
would  I  have  done  had  you  not  happened  to  overhear  us? 
My  poor  word  would  have  availed  but  little  against  his  false 
hoods.  I  did  not  think  or  realize  the  evil  construction  that 
might  be  placed  upon  our  seeming  intimacy.  The  world  at 
large  does  not  know  of  the  separation,  and  as  his  wife's  friend 
I  thought  it  was  not  a  serious  thing  to  be  with  him  in  company 
of  others.  His  letters  containing  the  protestations  of  his 
love  I  have  kept,  and  also  have  sent  copies  to  Edith,  and  I 
want  you  to  read  them  sometime.  I  think  they  will  exonerate 
me  from  any  reciprocal  feelings." 

"Your  word  is  enough  for  me,  Aileen.  1  trust  you  utterly. 
There  will  be  no  secrets  between  us,  dear.  We  kmnv  each 
other  too  well." 

Edith,  dear,  Wilder  has  disappeared.  Just  where,  no  one 
knows.  But  one  who  knew  him  saw  him  purchase  a  ticket 
and  found  that  he  had  taken  passage  to  New  York.  I  pray 
heaven  we  may  never  see  or  hear  of  him  again.  And  should 
you  see  Ruth  before  I  can  reach  her  by  letter,  say  only  this, 
that  he  has  disappeared,  we  know  not  where.  I  would  not 


376  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

wound  her  further  by  telling  her  of  his  conduct  or  that  he 
was  forced  to  leave. 

I  can  see  in  the  not  very  distant  future  the  smoke — incense, 
1  should  say — arising  from  the  narghileh.  I  must  get  another 
one  for  dear  old  friend  Jack  Gordon,  who  has  given  me 
Frank's  letters,  which  I  will  read  while  they  talk,  or  busy 
myself  with  other  things,  for  I  shall  concern  myself  more 
about  household  affairs  in  the  future.  In  times  of  peace 
prepare  for  smoke !  AILEEN. 


XL 

"When  grief  is  great  enough,  it  cuts  down  until  it  finds  the  very 
soul,  and  this  is  agony.  And  he  who  has  it  does  not  seek  to  share  it 
with  another,  for  he  knows  that  no  other  human  being  can  comprehend 
it.  It  belongs  to  him  alone  and  he  is  dumb." 

Alice  and  her  journal. — To  you  I  have  told  my  thoughts. 
You  have  known  of  my  hours  of  happiness  and  sorrows.  To 
you  only  can  I  tell  of  the  misery  that  fate  has  heaped  upon 
me.  Dear,  silent  pages,  I  must  write  more  of  my  life.  Some 
thing  impels  me.  Your  pages  are  blotted  with  the  blistering 
tears  that  fall,  staining  the  pure  white  leaves  even  as  my  life 
was  stained  by  one  who  drew  my  soul  from  its  haven  of 
purity,  by  a  pretense  of  love.  I  wonder  what  he  will  have 
to  answer  for  who  breathed  vows  of  constancy  and  truth  and 
I  believed. 

In  the  beginning  I  was  innocent  after  1  knew  it  was  too 
late.  In  my  helpless  condition  I  knew  not  what  to  do, 
though  I  had  planed  to  go  away  and  try  to  do  what  I 
thought  was  best  for  me.  But  the  old,  old  story  was 
re-enacted — he  came  and  I  was  tempted  to  remain.  His 
reasoning  seemed  right  and  plausible.  He  said  his  wife  did 
not  care  for  him  and  that  she  would  be  glad  of  an  excuse 
for  a  separation.  And  if  I  went  to  their  home  it  would  be 
all  right.  I  thought  in  my  foolish  heart  if  she  did  not  care 
for  him  that  it  did  not  matter,  and  I  loved  him  so  much  I 
was  willing  to  brave  everything  for  the  sake  of  his  love.  And 
the  childish  desire  to  be  revenged  for  her  taunting  words  to 
me  when  1  was  a  child  and  which  had  never  faded  from 
my  mind,  seemed  to  make  it  right  to  do  what  he  told  me  was 
the  only  possible  way  for  us  to  be  happy,  and  for  him,  to 
be  able  to  claim  me  before  the  world. 

I  went  and  the  agony  I  endured  I  cannot  write  of,  though 
buoyed  up  by  his  constant  reiterations  of  his  love  and  the 
hope  held  out  that  very  soon  he  would  tell  his  wife  the  truth 
and  she  would  gladly  give  him  the  divorce  he  only  waited  for. 

377 


378  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

And  then  one  evening  Ruth  returned  and  overheard  our 
conversation.  She  saw  him  kissing  me  and  fell  senseless  into 
the  room.  For  the  first  time  a  suspicion  that  she  still  cared 
for  her  husband  crossed  my  mind.  Though  when  I  said  as 
much  to  him  he  answered  "No";  that  she  was  subject  to 
fainting  spells  and  for  me  not  to  cry  or  worry.  He  would 
see  that  all  would  be  well. 

The  next  day  she  disappeared,  and  Bert,  as  I  now 
called  him,  said  he  had  learned  that  she  had  gone  to  San 
Francisco,  that  he  was  sure  she  had  gone  to  see  about  a 
divorce  and  he  would  not  recognize  her  any  longer  as  his  wife. 

I  begged  to  go  away.  I  wanted  to  leave,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  something  back  of  all  his  excuses.  Some 
how  I  felt  that  she  still  loved  him,  though  he  had  solemnly 
assured  me  that  she  did  not  care  for  him,  and  that  her  pride 
only  had  kept  her  from  a  separation.  He  made  me  promise 
to  remain  until  he  should  return,  saying  that  he  would  have 
all  arranged  for  our  future  happiness  when  he  came  back. 

It  was  several  days  before  he  returned,  and  then  Ruth  came 
with  him.  I  saw  him  only  for  a  moment.  He  said  she  was 
not  well,  but  insisted  on  coming  back  with  him;  and  he  would 
tell  me  all  the  next  day. 

When  I  went  in  the  breakfast  room  the  following  morning 
he  told  me  to  take  her  seat,  that  she  was  not  to  sit  there  any 
more,  and  I  could  pour  his  coffee.  She  came  in.  I  said  some 
thing  to  her  about  her  health  and  the  climate  not  agreeing 
with  her.  She  made  no  reply,  but  spoke  to  Bert  and  said : 

"Was  it  for  this  you  brought  me  back  to  doubly  insult  me  ?" 

I  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  He  told  her  not  to  make 
a  scene,  and  that  I  was  to  keep  the  seat  in  the  future.  I  was 
frightened  at  her  look  and  his  stern  manner  as  she  went  out. 
And  I  started  to  go,  too. 

"Sit  down,  Alice,"  he  said  to  me,  in  a  voice  unlike  I  had 
ever  heard  before,  and  trembling  I  obeyed. 

"I  want  to  say,"  he  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  "that  I  followed 
Ruth  to  our  home  in  the  city;  that  I  have  told  her  the  whole 
truth,  and  she  forgave  me.  And  the  result  is  that  she  cannot 
make  our  secret  public  for  she  cannot  sue  me  for  a  divorce." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  379 

"I  do  not  understand.  I  thought  that  was  what  you  wished, 
what  you  went  back  for.  You  said  it  was  for  our  happiness ; 
that  she  did  not  care  and  would  be  glad  of  a  separation." 

"I  know  but  in  this  I  have  deceived  you.  She  does  care. 
In  fact  she  loves  me  so  much  she  forgave  all.  That  was  why 
she  came  back  with  me.  I  do  not  love  her.  I  have  told  you 
the  truth  in  this  respect.  I  will  not  live  with  her.  You  and  I 
will  go  back  to  the  city  today.  You  must  pack  up  at  once,  and 
go  on  the  first  train.  I  will  see  you  off  in  safety. 

"You  will  go  to  the  city  and  go  at  once  to  Mrs.  Andrews 
and  the  cottage.  I  will  follow  you  later  and  we  will  be  happy 
yet.  Ruth  will  live  here  and  the  child  will  be  well  cared  for, 
and  the  world  none  the  wiser.  And  we  two  happy  in  our 
little  home  as  we  were  before — "  he  paused —  "before  this 
unpleasant  episode  forced  us  to  change  our  little  Eden  for  a 


time." 


1  was  so  stunned  by  the  revelation  that  I  was  numb  and 
helpless. 

"Then  all  this  has  been  a  subterfuge,  my  coming  here — 
the  falsehoods  told  to  Ruth  and  me.  You  do  not  intend 
getting  a  divorce;  do  not  mean  to  marry  me,"  I  cried. 

"Not  at  present,  dear.  Do  not  be  exacting.  It  may  come 
in  time,  but  could  not  be  done  now.  In  the  meantime,  we 
can  be  happy  together.  Alice,  my  love,  why  do  you  care? 
You  said  you  cared  for  nothing — creed  or  law,  and  I  believed 
you.  We  can  be  happy  and  the  dear  world  none  the  wiser." 

"1  know,  but  that  was  when  I  thought  your  wife  did  not 
love  you.  I  have  changed  and  things  I  cheated  myself  into 
believing  right,  do  not  look  the  same  to  me  since" — I  could 
say  no  more.  I  felt  myself  growing  faint  and  weak. 

He  saw  it  and  said : 

"Now,  brace  up.  Cheat  yourself  again  into  the  same  old 
bright  sweetheart  I  knew  over  on  the  hills.  Run  away  and 
get  ready.  I  will  send  the  maid  to  help  you.  But  you  must 
go  away;  Ruth  may  not  be  as  she  has  been." 

He  opened  the  door,  called  the  maid,  and  told  her  she  was 
to  help  me  get  ready  for  the  first  train ;  that  I  was  compelled 
to  go  away  on  important  business.  Then  he  handed  me  a 
package,  saying: 


380  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

"This  was  sent  you  in  my  care.  I  forgot  to  give  it  to  you 
last  night — read  it  on  the  train,  you  will  barely  have  time 
to  get  ready." 

Bewildered  by  the  sudden  change  in  Bert's  manner  and 
the  thought  that  Ruth  loved  him  even  as  I  did,  was  almost 
more  than  I  could  endure;  but  I  forced  myself  to  appear 
calm  and  worked  hurriedly  with  the  maid  until  all  was 
finished,  and  then  1  started  for  the  nursery.  Bert  inter 
cepted  me. 

"No,  you  cannot  go  in.  You  will  break  down.  The  nurse 
must  not  suspect  anything  is  wrong.  Be  brave  for  your  sake 
and  mine.  You  must,  I  tell  you,"  as  I  still  hesitated.  "You 
do  not  know  or  understand  as  well  as  I  do." 

"No,  I  do  not.  Would  to  God  I  had  understood,  then  I 
would  never  have  come  here,"  I  cried,  white  and  trembling. 

1  'But  you  did,  and  it  is  to  save  you  from  the  world's  scorn 
and  myself  that  I  am  trying  to  do  what  is  best  for  both  of  us. 
Won't  you  believe  it?  Won't  you  trust  me?  Hard  as  it  is 
for  you,  you  must  do  as  I  tell  you,  for  the  sake  of  our  dear 
love.  Alice,  do  not  desert  me  or  forsake  me  now.  If  you 
do  not  follow  out  the  plans  as  I  have  arranged,  you  will 
drive  me  to  insanity.  Come  with  me  at  once." 

And  1  was  compelled  to  go  without  further  words. 

Once  on  the  train  my  mind  seemed  to  gather  its  reasoning 
powers.  I  knew  almost  at  once  that  I  was  not  going  to 
the  cottage.  Slowly  it  dawned  upon  me  that  I  would  not 
see  him  again.  I  had  done  wrong  in  coming  here — his  wife 
loved  him.  Ah,  I  knew  it  now — knew  it  when  I  saw  her 
face  this  morning,  and  if  she  loved  him  and  was  willing  to 
forgive  all,  I  had  no  right  in  the  cottage  and  less  right  ever 
to  see  him  again.  My  soul  seemed  to  shrivel  up  at  the 
thought.  It  had  expanded  in  the  warm  sensuous  atmosphere 
of  a  love  that  was  to  blight  and  sear  it.  I  was  not  learned 
in  the  ways  of  the  world;  I  knew  nothing  about  the  eternal 
and  immutable  laws  of  justice,  of  compensation  that  was  to 
come.  But  slowly  it  was  unfolded  before  my  mental  vision. 
I  was  young  and  life  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  dispose  of. 
One  could  not  die  easily  unless  one  could  have  the  courage 
to  brave  death  and  end  it  instantly.  So  my  thoughts  ran  on. 


FROM   THE   WORLD  381 

Opening  my  traveling  bag,  I  saw  the  package  he  had  given 
me  addressed  "Miss  Alice  Heaton,  care  of  Mr.  Bert  Wilder." 
I  was  astonished  to  see  the  name.  From  whom  could  it  be? 
I  had  been  called  Mrs.  Bertram  so  long,  I  had  forgotten  that 
anyone  knew  my  real  name.  Turning  it  over  I  saw  Bert's 
writing  on  a  note. 

"I  do  not  know,  Alice,"  he  wrote,  "what  this  letter  con 
tains,  but  am  very  sure  it  is  from  Mrs.  Browning.  She  sent 
me  a  note  saying  she  knew  where  you  were.  How  I  wonder? 
But  you  will  tell  me  soon.  I  wish  to  say  that  you  must  forget 
all  that  is  unpleasant  and  only  remember  that  love  shall  hold 
all  that  is  sweet,  and  make  the  bitter  less  hard  if  it  must  come 
to  us  in  the  years  for  you  and  me.  There  will  be  no  tomor 
rows  of  loneliness  for  us  so  long  as  we  two  live  and  love 
in  a  oneness  of  thought,  of  purpose,  and  good-fellowship. 

"Free  from  the  taint  of  selfishness  and  hallowed  by  the 
sanctity  of  a  great  and  omnipresent  love,  life  shall  be  hence 
forth  an  existence  unbroken  by  the  worries  of  the  world— 
the  envious  world  that  shall  never  intrude  into  our  harmonious 
life.  I  have  realized  that  it  is  best  for  us  to  live  as  we  have 
been  living.  Neither  you  nor  I  care  for  creed  or  law.  We 
will  be  sufficient  unto  ourselves. 

"But  we  will  live  as  we  have  heretofore,  keeping  our  own 
secrets.  Ruth  will  never  make  it  public,  and  we,  secure,  will 
live  on  until  that  last  deep  sleep  shall  come.  Until  then,  we 
will  take  all  of  the  best  this  life  can  give  us  and  trustfully  go 
on  until  the  end  beyond  which  we  know  nothing.  Trust  me, 
and  love  me  until  we  meet,  and  all  will  be  well." 

Slowly  the  truth  forced  its  way  into  my  heart.  He  did 
not  intend  to  marry  me !  Never  had,  I  began  to  think.  Yet 
I  loved  him  so  well  I  could  not  believe  it.  Surely  he  could 
not  have  been  acting  a  lie,  and  making  me  believe  it  all  the 
while !  But  I  could  not  do  it.  I  would  not  go  back,  nor 
ever  see  him  again,  though  I  loved  him  with  my  whole  soul, 
though  it  should  kill  me,  yet  I  must  not  do  further  wrong. 
God  help  me !  I  cried — I  have  done  enough — help  and  give 
me  strength !  Forcing  myself  to  be  calm,  for  I  thought  I 
was  attracting  attention,  I  did  not  open  the  other  letter,  i 
felt  I  could  endure  no  more. 


3 82  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

1  closed  my  eyes,  trying  to  think,  and  heard  some  people 
talking  behind  me.  One  mentioned  a  hotel.  They  were 
evidently  some  theatrical  people  from  their  conversation,  and 
mentioned  a  hotel  I  had  not  heard  of  or  knew.  Instantly  I 
realized  that  I  must  go  somewhere,  and  I  turned  and  asked 
them  about  the  place,  saying  I  was  a  stranger  and  knew 
nothing  about  the  best  hotels  in  the  city.  One  of  the  men 
answered  civilly  that  the  hotel  spoken  of  was  good,  but  a 
quiet  place  frequented  by  theatrical  people. 

"Do  you  belong  to  the  profession?"  an  elderly  man  asked. 

"No,  but  I  have  always  thought  I  should  like  to.  It  must 
be  a  little  better  than  anything  else — the  change,  the  excite 
ment  and  keeping  constantly  occupied,  one  has  to  be  busy, 
I  suppose?" 

"Rather,"  he  answered.  "You  do  not  know  much  about 
the  life,  I  think?" 

"1  have  read  something  about  theatrical  people.  I  have 
never  been  in  a  theatre,  so  I  do  not  know." 

I  saw  him  glance  at  his  companion. 

"And  in  what  saintly  enclosure  have  you  lived  your — not 
so  very  many  years,  I  judge  ?  "  and  he  hesitated. 

"I  have  not  been  out  of  the  convent  very  long,"  I  replied. 

"And  you  have  aspirations  for  the  stage  already.  In  what 
particular  line  do  your  fancies  lead  you?" 

"I  have  been  told  that  I  could  sing,  but  sometimes  people 
are  prejudiced — do  not  mind;  I  am  foolish  to  speak  of  so 
silly  a  thing.  Pardon  me,  I  only  meant  to  ask  about  the 
hotel." 

I  was  ashamed  to  have  spoken,  but  a  wild  thought  had 
come  into  my  mind.  If  only  I  could  have  something  to  do, 
if  I  could  get  away  and  forget !  I  had  been  told  my  voice 
was  good,  and  Bert  had  praised  me.  And  then  I  felt  the 
tears  sting  my  eyes.  I  closed  my  lids  firmly  to  keep  them 
back,  while  struggling  to  compose  myself;  I  heard  them  talk 
ing  about  needing  a  singer. 

"The  appearance  is  right,"  one  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "If 
the  voice  is  equal — nothing  better  could  be  asked." 

After  a  pause,  the  older  man  said  to  me: 


FROM   THE   WORLD  383 

"If  you  think  you  would  like  the  excitement  and  change 
of  a  theatrical  life,  I  would  like  to  hear  your  voice  this 
evening  at  the  hotel,  if  you  are  not  too  tired.  You  look  as 
thought  you  are  not  very  strong.  Have  you  been  ill?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "ill  and  worried  because  I  have  had 
troubles,  but  I  will  try  and  perhaps  1  can  please  you." 

"We  will  take  you  to  the  hotel  if  you  wish,  as  you  are 
a  stranger" — he  paused  as  if  uncertain. 

"I  shall  be  very  grateful."  The  thought  flashed  across 
my  mind  that  if  I  went  with  them,  it  would  appear  as  if  I 
belonged  to  them  if  inquiry  should  be  made.  My  desire  now 
was  to  lose  my  identity  that  I  might  not  be  traced  for  the 
present  at  least. 

The  ordeal,  dear  journal,  is  over,  and  though  I  was  fright 
ened  when  the  time  came  for  me  to  sing,  it  was  only  to  be  a 
preliminary  test,  the  manager,  as  he  proved  to  be,  said.  He 
sent  for  me  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  I  was  taken  to  his 
apartments,  where  I  found  him  and  the  other  man  who  had 
spoken  to  me  on  the  train.  They  asked  me  to  sing  without 
further  comment.  I  tried.  At  first,  it  was  a  poor  effort,  but 
I  was  encouraged  to  go  on,  until  I  forgot  myself  and  my 
fears,  and  sang  as  1  had  not  done  for  months  and  since 
I  was  happy  in  the  cottage,  a  loved  and  happy  wife,  as  I 
thought. 

Now,  what  was  I?  An  outcast;  fate's  plaything.  The 
thought  sent  a  tremor  in  my  voice  that  caused  me  to  end  in 
a  wail,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  started  up,  feeling  that  I  had 
ruined  my  hope.  I  looked  at  the  manager — he  seemed 
astonished.  He  knows  how  silly  I  have  been — how  useless 
to  think  I  could  sing,  was  my  thought. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  sing?  Who  taught  you?"  he 
asked. 

I  named  the  convent  and  my  teacher. 

"I  do  not  know,  but  I  am  sure  your  teacher  has  had  experi 
ences  not  learned  inside  cloistered  walls.  Your  voice  has 
been  trained  as  if  for  the  express  purpose  you  now  say  you 
desire.  If  you  care,  you  may  consider  yourself  engaged.  We 
will  test  your  voice  in  the  theatre  tomorrow,  and  settle  business 
matters.  You  had  better  rest  tonight.  You  seem  to  be 


384  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

trembling,"  and  he  smiled  kindly.     "Tell  me  your  name?" 

I  did  so.  "But  I  do  not  want  my  name  known,"  I  said 
hurriedly. 

"What  dreadful  thing  has  the  little  one  done  that  she  is 
so  desirous  of  suppressing  it?" 

I  was  alarmed  and  replied  that  my  people  would  not 
permit  me  to  go  on  the  stage  if  they  knew.  "But  it  is  my 
desire,"  I  said,  "and  there  is  no  reason  only  that." 

"Then  we  will  find  a  name  to  suit  the  singer.  Have  you 
registered  under  your  own  name  here  ?" 

"They  did  not  ask  me.    I  did  not  know  if  I  must." 

"Never  mind,  they  waited  for  me,  I  suppose,  because  I  told 
them  to  show  you  a  room.  I  will  arrange  it.  Good  night,  be 
satisfied  with  your  gift,  my  child,  and  make  the  best  of  it." 

He  was  unlike  anyone  I  had  met  before.  1  felt  as  though 
I  could  trust  him  with  my  life,  my  secret,  and  I  seemed  to 
know  that  he  would  be  worthy  of  the  trust. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning  that  I  remembered  the 
unread  letter.  I  was  so  worn  out  with  my  experiences,  my 
fears,  and  hopes  of  a  new  and  unexpected  life.  I  opened  it 
and  read:  "Alice,  I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that 
you  are  not  married,  though  you  wrote  me  a  falsehood! 
Jane  found  it  out.  She  has  a  friend  living  near  the  cottage 
where  you  and  your  'husband'  as  you  called  him,  Mr.  Bertram, 
or  Mr.  Bert  Wilder,  as  we  knew  him,  lived.  Jane  had  seen 
you  with  him  several  times  before  you  ran  away.  And  while 
we  suspected  and  feared  that  it  might  be  so,  I  did  not  dream 
you  could  be  so  shameless  as  to  live  so  near  us  and  a  large 
city  with  another  woman's  husband. 

"Neither  could  I  have  been  made  to  believe  by  anything 
but  convincing  evidence  that  Mr.  Wilder,  our  professed 
friend,  could  have  come  to  our  own  home  and  seduced  our 
grandchild !  At  last  you  have  the  truth — under  our  own  roof, 
or  at  least  within  the  confines  of  our  home." 

"Grandchild!" — the  paper  fell  from  my  hand;  1  sank 
down,  helpless  and  faint. 

Oh,  what  was  the  mystery?  Now  I  remembered  Mrs. 
Browning  would  not  allow  me  to  say  anything  about  my 


FROM   THE   WORLD  385 

parents  and  they  claimed  to  have  adopted  me !  Struggling 
to  master  my  emotions,  I  picked  up  the  letter  and  read  on : 

"Jane  knew  of  the  letter  you  wrote  and  that  you  signed  it 
Alice  Bertram.  She  learned  also  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bertram 
lived  near  her  friend.  And  one  evening  she  saw  Mr.  Wilder 
get  off  the  cars  and  start  toward  the  cottage.  She  was  curious 
and  followed,  and  saw  him  enter  the  hedge  and  through  it 
saw  you  both,  with  you  in  his  arms.  The  rest  was  easy  to 
ascertain.  My  husband  was  ill — I  will  not  call  him  your 
grandfather — will  not  allow  him  to  be  twice  dishonored! 
Time  passed.  I  commanded  Jane  to  keep  quiet,  and  she  did 
so.  My  husband  died  without  having  the  burden  of  your 
shame  added  to  the  woe  he  had  endured  for  years.  The  grief 
that  had  shortened  his  life,  and  that  will  mine,  I  know — your 
mother's  disgrace." 

My  mother's  disgrace !  Oh,  the  horror  of  the  words.  My 
beautiful  mother,  whose  memory  I  loved  and  whom  I  wor 
shipped  !  What  had  she  done  ?  A  sickening,  deathlike 
feeling  gripped  my  heart.  Everything  seemed  black — I  was 
suffocating — something  seemed  to  snap  within  my  heart,  and 
I  knew  no  more.  *  *  I  do  not  know  how  long  1 

remained  unconscious,  but  at  last  I  awakened  with  a  horrible 
dread.  Something  terrible  had  happened!  Then  I  saw  the 
letter,  and  remembered.  I  must  read  on  to  the  end.  I  must 
know  the  rest. 

I  read:  "Now  that  I  know  all  and  my  husband  dead,  the 
property  which  was  all  left  to  me,  with  instructions  to  dispose 
of  as  I  chose,  I  will  say,  1  have  made  my  will  and  have  left 
nothing  to  you  save  a  small  allowance  which  I  have  added 
to  the  amount  you  have  in  the  bank.  I  shall  bestow  the  bulk 
of  it  in  charities.  Some  I  shall  give  to  a  maternity  hospital- 
it  will  meet  your  approval,  I  am  sure — being  in  the  line  of 
your  aspirations. 

"Of  what  we  hoped  for  you,  I  will  say  nothing  but  this. 
My  desire  to  send  you  away  at  the  time  was  because  I  thought 
it  better,  and  later  because  Jane  knew  of  your  clandestine 
meetings  with  Wilder,  and  knew  he  was  married,  though  she 
did  not  know  what  I  now  tell  you — that  he  is  the  husband 
of  your  half  sister !  Ruth  Carrington's  father  betrayed  your 


3 86  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

mother  when  Ruth  was  scarcely  more  than  a  baby.  He  gained 
her  affections  and  by  some  subterfuge  led  her  to  believe  they 
were  married.  When  she  learned  the  truth,  she  went  south 
and  lived  under  an  assumed  name.  We  found  out  her  shame 
when  we  returned  from  a  trip  abroad.  And  her  father 
disowned  her. 

"We  did  not  know  until  after  her  death  that  she  had 
thought  herself  a  wife.  She  was  named  Alice  Heaton  Brown 
ing,  and  assumed  a  portion  of  her  name.  In  letters  sent  to 
us  to  be  opened  after  she  was  dead  she  told  us  what  we  knew, 
that  Carrington  had  been  killed  suddenly — this  was  when 
you  were  about  five  years  old — and  that  his  wife,  Ruth's 
mother,  went  to  Santa  Barbara  for  her  health.  She  lived 
near-by  and  you  two  children  played  together;  but  it  was 
several  weeks  before  your  mother  knew  that  the  Ruth  you 
spoke  of  was  Ruth  Carrington,  and  that  her  father  was  dead 
and  her  mother  there  for  her  health.  The  shock  brought  on 
a  fainting  spell  from  which  she  rallied. 

"She  wrote  the  full  account  of  her  life.  We  did  not  know 
where  she  was  living  until  she  wrote  telling  us  that  she  could 
not  live  very  long  and  begged  us  to  look  after  you  and  adopt 
you  if  we  could  forgive  her.  But  you  were  not  to  be  known 
by  any  name  but  the  name  she  had  lived  under — Alice 
Heaton.  She  did  not  want  to  further  disgrace  us,  and  asked 
that  you  might  be  brought  up  in  a  convent. 

"You  were  put  in  school  as  she  desired.  We  did  not  adopt 
you,  but  thought  if  you  proved  worthy  we  would  leave  the 
portion  which  should  have  been  your  mother's  to  you. 

"How  you  have  blighted  our  hopes — 1  leave  it  for  you 
to  judge.  You  were  so  like  your  mother  that  it  wrung  our 
hearts  to  have  you  with  us.  Still  we  hoped  that  all  would 
be  well  and  though  we  longed  to  tell  you  the  truth,  dared  not. 
We  did  not  want  you  to  know  of  the  sorrow  your  mother 
had  given  us,  or  the  shame  you  inherited.  But  now  I  feel 
you  deserve  to  know  all.  I  have  left  a  letter  which  will 
publish  your  shame  and  your  mother's  to  the  whole  world, 
should  you  try  to  break  the  will. 

"I  hardly  think  you  will  care  for  the  world  to  know  who 
and  what  your  mother  was  and  that  you  have  been  living 


FROM   THE   WORLD  387 

with  the  husband  of  your  half  sister,  whose  father  betrayed 
your  mother.  However,  it  is  possible  Mr.  Wilder  may  want 
the  money  fully  as  much  as  he  wanted  you,  whom  he  knew 
he  could  not  marry. 

"You  chose  your  own  way,  and  must  lead  your  own  life. 
But  I  pray  you  if  you  loved  your  mother,  destroy  this  letter 
and  let  her  rest  in  peace.  I  think  you  owe  this  much  to  her 
that  you  keep  our  name  from  the  public.  I  shall  not  live 
long,  and  I  pray  God  I  may  never  see  or  hear  anything  more 
of  you  while  I  live.  Mary  Browning." 

Dear  Journal,  my  hand  shakes  as  I  write.  1  know  what  it 
is  to  receive  the  death  sentence.  I  have  had  the  first  stroke 
and  I  know  too  well  that  I  cannot  endure  life  much  longer. 
My  mother  !  Oh  !  the  thought  of  her.  That  is  what  touches 
my  heart.  There  are  little  sharp  pains.  Something  is  stab 
bing,  striking,  hurting  me!  *  *  *  And  Ruth,  whom  I 
hated — ours  the  same  father! 

"Unclean  and  spotted  from  the  world." 

I  writhe  and  moan  in  agony! 

"The  sins  of  the  father  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children." 
How  the  thought  scorches !  Will  my  child  be  accursed  also 
for  the  sin  of  its  father  and  mother?" 

*  'Not  mine,  surely  not !"  I  cry,  "for  I  did  not  know."  Then 
I  thought,  why  was  I  not  told,  and  1  started  up  In  rage. 
Why  did  not  those  stony-hearted  people  tell  me  and  warn 
me?  Then  I  might  have  been  spared.  That  prying,  deceitful 
Jane !  She  knew  all  the  time,  and  so  did  that  hard-hearted 
old  woman.  Why  did  not  they  talk  to  me  and  tell  me  that 
Bert  was  a  married  man? 

And  all  the  while  the  old  woman — she  knew  that  the  man 
was  the  husband  of  my  half-sister.  Yet  because  of  her  pride's 
sake  would  not  tell  me  or  give  me  a  chance  to  know  what  I 
was  doing. 

Heaven  knows  I  have  done  wrong,  but  not  willingly.  I 
was  but  a  child,  and  surely  have  been  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning. 

Almost  crazed  with  grief,  I  went  out  and  wandered  for 
how  long  I  know  not.  I  finally  found  myself  at  the  edge  of 
the  bay.  The  waters  dimpled  and  sparkled.  They  looked 


388  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

inviting.  I  will  end  it  all  now,  I  thought  to  myself.  If  death 
is  but  a  forgetting  of  all  things,  why  not  end  it?  God  has 
forgotten,  else  He  would  have  sent  me  a  word  of  warning 
before  it  was  too  late.  There  can  be  nothing  beyond  death 
worse  than  this  life,  I  know. 

I  have  not  solved  the  simple  question  of  life.  Why  think 
of  the  complexities  of  the  hereafter? 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?  "  asked  a  stern  voice  in  my  ear. 
The  wind  was  blowing  and  I  had  not  heard  a  step. 

"Nothing  that  will  interest  you;  but  suppose  I  had  thought 
of  solving  the  unsolved  mystery;  and  finding  a  relief  in  the 
nothingness  of  death,  it  is  possible  it  may  mean  less  or  more." 
I  knew  he  was  there  and  that  I  would  be  obliged  to  go  away 
for  the  time  at  least. 

His  face  struck  me  as  strangely  familiar.  All  at  once  I 
remembered  that  I  had  seen  him  on  the  Muir  Glacier.  He 
thought,  then,  that  I  was  attempting  suicide  when  1  was  so 
happy!  Well,  there  was  reason  enough  now. 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  death?  Why  soil  your  soul  with 
sin?"  he  said  earnestly.  "You  should  strive  for  something 
better  if  life  has  not  been  what  you  desire — try  to  be  sinless  as 
when  you  came  into  the  world.  There  must  be  wrong  else 
you  would  not  wish  to  end  your  life." 

"Sinless!"  The  thought  of  my  life  flashed  before  my 
mental  vision. 

"Sinless,  as  I  came  into  the  world?  Do  you  know  that 
I  was  born  in  sin?  That  to  me  the  inheritance  of  sin  came 
with  my  first  breath,  weaving  its  meshes  about  me.  Is  it  my 
fault  that  I  was  born  into  an  evil  world  to  suffer  the  pangs 
of  hell  because  of  the  sins  of  others?  I  was  betrayed  and  led 
into  sin  before  I  knew  what  it  meant.  Afterwards  I  yielded 
to  a  wrong  because  of  my  love.  Now  what  is  there  left 
for  me?" 

"Turn  away  from  it  all  and  rely  on  Him,  the  great  sufferer, 
and  be  sure  you  will  find  that  rest  which  you  have  not  sought 
up  to  the  moment.  Then  you  will  be  reconciled  with  suffering. 
You  will  be  given  better  days,  and  you  will  feel  at  once  the 
happiness  for  which  you  have  been  craving  in  vain.  You 
will  begin  to  see  beyond  the  grave  the  beautiful  horizon 


FROM   THE   WORLD  389 

shown  by  faith,  and  you  will  understand  the  problem  of  life. 
Go  back,"  he  said  to  me,  "in  your  despair,  ask  humbly  for 
help  and  relief." 

I  returned  and  found  it  was  too  late  for  my  appointment 
at  the  theatre.  Worn  and  weary,  I  threw  myself  upon  the 
bed  and  slept. 

It  was  night  when  I  awoke;  I  tried  to  arise,  but  was  too 
weak,  and  I  realized  that  I  had  eaten  nothing  all  day.  I 
managed  to  reach  the  bell,  and  when  it  was  answered  asked 
for  something  to  eat.  Shortly  afterwards  my  dinner  was 
brought,  and  while  trying  to  eat,  a  card  was  brought  to  me 
and  the  manager  followed  the  boy  in. 

"I  heard  you  were  ill.  Is  that  the  reason  you  did  not 
come  to  the  theatre  as  you  agreed?  What  is  the  trouble?" 

"I  have  had  some  bad  news;  in  fact  brought  the  letter 
containing  it  with  me  but  did  not  read  it  until  this  morning. 
I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  I  am  too  weak  to  sing  now.  I 
must  rest  a  while  if  1  care  to  live  at  all,"  I  answered. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  to  do.  Some  of  my  people  are  going 
to  the  mountains  for  a  short  time.  Why  not  go  with  them? 
It  will  be  a  change,  and  the  best  thing  for  you.  When  you 
return  in  a  few  days,  we  will  begin  work,  and  you  will  feel 
like  a  new  person  very  soon.  Think  it  over  and  start  tomor 
row  night." 

I  went  with  the  people,  and  found  them  more  than  kind, 
but  I  could  not  recover  my  strength.  I  tried  to  be  agreeable 
and  hide  my  grief  from  them  as  much  as  possible.  One  day 
I  wandered  away  where  I  could  be  alone.  I  was  soothed  by 
the  mountains,  the  winds  came  as  a  blessing,  and  unconsciously 
I  found  myself  singing  out  there  to  the  great  trees;  alone  in 
the  woods,  as  I  thought.  Suddenly  1  saw  a  woman,  beautiful 
and  queenly  looking,  in  the  path  above  me.  She  came  down 
and  spoke  to  me  about  my  voice,  and  she  seemed  so  womanly, 
strong  and  sympathetic,  with  such  a  world  of  kindliness  in 
her  eyes  I  longed  to  go  to  her  and  throw  myself  into  her 
arms  and  sob  out  my  grief  on  her  heart.  I  knew  she  loved 
the  hills  when  .she  told  me  she  had  been  out  all  day,  and 
was  sure  she  understood  my  longing  also.  She  spoke  about 
the  path  and  being  alone. 


390  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

Suddenly  my  dream  and  my  mother's  form  with  extended 
arms  came  back  to  me.  Was  she  beckoning  and  entreating 
me  to  come?  I  turned  sick  and  dizzy,  and  fearing  I  would 
break  down, I  went  hurriedly  as  I  could  down  the  trail  to  the 
hotel.  She  left  the  next  day,  and  I  learned  her  name  was 
Aileen  Livingston,  and  that  her  home  was  in  San  Francisco. 

We  returned,  but  I  did  not  seem  to  grow  stronger.  There 
was  something  the  matter  with  my  heart.  It  pained  me  and 
1  could  scarcely  sleep.  All  through  the  night  I  would  prop 
myself  up  on  the  pillows;  I  seemed  to  be  smothering.  At 
times  my  heart  would  stop  beating,  and  then  the  blood  would 
surge  up  into  my  head,  and  my  throat,  and  would  choke  me. 

All  the  while  I  was  fighting  my  battles  alone,  striving  for 
victory  over  myself  and  my  longings.  I  tried  to  hate  the  man 
who  had  crucified  me,  but  I  could  not.  At  times  I  raged  and 
fought  against  the  desire  to  go  back  to  him,  to  creep  into 
his  arms  and  rest;  if  only  for  a  little  while.  I  knew  it  would 
not  be  long !  Why  not  end  the  struggle  and  drift  with  the 
tide  that  was  carrying  me  swiftly  on  to  the  untried  and 
unknown  ? 

I  was  so  lonely !  And  I  was  afraid  in  the  long  dark  nights, 
when  I  lay  staring  and  dreading  the  cold  hand  of  death  that 
took  shape  and  form  in  the  pale  light  that  shone  through 
the  windows  and  beckoned  me.  The  horrible  shape  that  1 
could  not  hide  from  my  eyes,  though  1  closed  them — it  was 
ever  before  my  mental  vision. 

I  would  lie  for  hours  and  wonder  why  I  should  suffer  so, 
when  there  seemed  to  be  so  many  happy  people  in  the  world. 
Sounds  of  music  and  laughter  and  happy  snatches  of  song 
came  from  the  streets  and  the  halls  of  the  hotel  but  for  me 
there  were  only  tears  in  my  heart. 

Then  the  old  desires  and  thoughts,  the  longings  would 
triumph  for  a  time.  Love  watered  by  tears  with  him,  was 
better  than  the  scorching  grief  that  would  sting  and  hurt  my 
eyes  for  all  time,  even  as  it  did  now. 

While  I  wrestled  with  my  misery,  I  could  look  ahead  and 
feel  that  the  uncertainty  of  life,  even  without  marriage,  was 
better  than  this  dread  and  horror,  for  I  felt  that  he  did  not 
intend  to  do  as  he  had  promised,  but  I  would  find  life  more 


FROM   THE   WORLD  391 

endurable,  I  would  have  at  least  the  kindness  and  care  of 
Mrs.  Andrews.  Now  I  had  no  one  except  a  hurried  visit 
now  and  then  from  some  of  my  new  acquaintances. 

Several  times  I  found  myself  trying  to  gather  up  my  things 
to  go,  then  the  weakness  and  the  thought  of  Ruth  and  of  my 
mother  held  me  back.  I  would  try  to  overcome  for  their 
sake  and  thus  I  fought,  inch  by  inch,  growing  weaker  physi 
cally,  but  stronger  each  time  in  the  endeavor  to  do  what  was 
right.  In  vain  I  strove  to  overcome  my  weakness.  I  tried 
to  go  to  the  theatre  as  I  promised,  but  could  not.  I  grew 
faint  with  the  very  effort  to  dress  myself. 

I  knew  it  was  impossible  to  sing,  and  I  longed  for  some 
one,  for  a  woman  to  come  to  me  and  pity  me  in  my  weakness. 
I  thought  there  could  be  no  one  in  all  the  world  so  lonely  as 
I,  so  desolate  and  heartbroken.  I  would  sob  myself  into  a 
troubled  sleep  now  and  then,  and  once  in  my  sleep  I  seemed 
to  see  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  appeared  like  a  vision 
to  me  on  the  mountain  trail.  There  seemed  to  be  infinite 
pity  and  love  in  her  sweet  eyes,  as  she  bent  over  me  and  said 
something — I  could  not  remember  what,  though  I  strove  to 
hear.  Oh!  If  only  she  might  come  and  sit  by  me,  for  a 
little  time,  only  an  hour!  Would  she  stay  with  me  if  she 
knew  all?  I  wanted  to  tell  her — I  felt  if  she  knew,  she 
would  not  be  cruel.  One  day  I  managed  to  dress  and 
go  out.  Weak  and  trembling,  I  made  my  way  to  a 
church  only  a  short  distance  away.  I  went  in  and  sank 
down,  trying  to  still  the  wild  throbbings  of  my  heart.  The 
votive  candles  burned  low,  back  in  the  gloom  of  a  richly 
sculptured  chapel.  In  the  nave  of  the  church  the  evening 
sun  shone  warm  and  bright  through  the  incense  misted  air. 
A  beam  struck  the  crown  surmounting  the  head  of  a  picture 
of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

There  was  music  from  the  choir  loft.  Someone  was  playing. 
There  were  tones  harmonious,  soft  and  sweet,  and  evanescent 
as  the  flood  of  light  coming  in  through  the  richly  decorated 
windows.  Strange,  vague  and  touching  a  suggestion  of  the 
supernal  came  to  me  with  a  sense  of  awe  and  fear.  Yet  there 
was  a  promise  in  the  cadences  and  a  blessing  coming  to  me 
through  the  darkness — a  thrilling  recurring  note  heaven-sent, 


392  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

surely,  with  its  comforting  message,  at  times  full  and  clear, 
then  receding  into  faint  mysterious  sounds,  seemingly  so  far 
away  that  it  was  almost  lost,  then  creeping  slowly,  softly 
toward  me,  ending  in  one  triumphant  burst  of  harmony,  flood 
ing  my  soul,  my  whole  being  with  an  almost  unbearable 
ecstasy. 

I  arose  feeling  strong  in  the  exaltation  of  the  moment. 
Some  people  had  come  from  the  choir  as  the  music  died 
away.  When  I  reached  the  outer  door,  everything  grew  dark 
and  I  steadied  myself  to  keep  from  falling.  Someone  paused 
besides  me  and  asked:  "Are  you  ill?" 

After  a  moment  the  dizziness  passed  and  I  saw  the  woman 
of  the  mountains — the  woman  of  my  dreams — with  pity  in 
her  face  standing  beside  me. 

"I  thought  I  was  strong  enough  to  come  here,  but  I  am 
weaker  than  I  imagined." 

"Where  do  you  live?"  she  asked. 

"Near  here,"  I  said,  and  mentioned  the  hotel. 

"I  will  see  you  there  in  safety  if  you  wish;  can  you  walk?" 
She  took  me  by  the  arm. 

"Yes,  if—  '  I  panted  for  breath — "if  you  do  not  mind 
coming,  I  would  love  to  have  you — come  with  me." 

"Certainly;  it  is  no  trouble;  I  will  gladly  assist  you.  You 
look  very  frail,  but  did  I  not  see  you  in  the  mountains?  I  am 
sure  of  it  now,  when  I  see  your  eyes  in  the  light." 

I  saw  her  face  change,  some  wave  of  thought  seemed  to 
strike  her,  for  I  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  she  held  my  arm, 
but  her  eyes  looked  pityingly  into  mine.  What  was  it?  Did 
she  know  anything?  Then  I  remembered  I  had  registered 
my  own  name  at  the  hotel  in  the  mountains.  1  had  not 
thought  about  it  at  the  time. 

As  we  went  out  she  talked  kindly  of  the  mountains  and 
their  beauty,  asking  if  I  had  been  ill  since  my  return  and 
saying  she  would  like  to  hear  me  sing  again,  and  when  we 
reached  the  hotel  she  said : 

"I  will  see  you  to  your  room  if  I  may,"  and  went  up  in 
the  elevator  with  me. 

"Have  you  no  one  with  you?"  she  asked.  "You  seem  to 
need  a  nurse." 


FROM   THE   WORLD  393 

"I  have  no  one  in  the  world,"  I  said,  "not  even  a  friend. 
I  am  all  alone." 

"If  you  would  like,  I  will  come  again." 

"Will  you?"  I  said  so  eagerly  that  I  was  mortified.  Then 
1  added,  "I  dreamed  once  that  you  came,  but  this  is  not  a 
dream,  is  it?"  and  I  tried  to  laugh. 

"No,  it  is  a  very  real  person  with  you,  and  I  will  come 
soon;  but  now  I  must  go,  and  you  need  rest." 

She  went  away  leaving  me  cheered  by  the  thought  that  I 
would  see  her  again.  I  was  no  longer  desolate,  nor  alone — 
a  woman's  pitying  eyes  had  looked  into  mine.  I  could  love 
her  if  I  dared.  I  might  in  secret!  She  would  come  again. 
I  was  no  longer — alone  ! 


XLI 

Love,  the  birds  of  the  air  sing  it,  the  theme  is  love.  All  nature 
teaches  it.  And  who  shall  deny  it  is  the  key-note  of  life.  I  would 
rather  be  miserable  in  my  love  than  never  to  have  known  its  sweetness. 

Aileen,  I  have  some  news  in  return  for  yours.  Ruth  has 
confided  in  me  that  the  girl  Fred  thought  he  loved  came  with 
them  from  Italy.  She  is  married,  but  could  not  resist  the 
opportunity  of  trying  her  fascinations  again  on  Fred.  He 
told  Ruth  that  he  had  been  the  veriest  fool  in  the  world  and 
was  disgusted  with  himself  to  think  he  had  ever  imagined 
he  could  care  for  such  a  woman.  She  married  Henry  Hutton 
in  New  York  before  starting  to  Europe.  She  told  Ruth  that 
she  had  been  his  affianced  wife  for  a  long  time;  but  she  had 
amused  herself  with  Fred,  and  that  he  had  fallen  desperately 
in  love  with  her,  and  wondered  if  she  could  not  have  a  little 
diversion  now,  that  Henry  would  not  mind,  for  she  had  told 
him  all  about  it. 

Ruth  was  so  indignant  at  her  heartlessness  that  she  told 
it  all  to  Fred,  and  now  he  is  retaliating,  whenever  we  chance 
to  meet — they  belong  to  another  party — by  being  very 
devoted  to  me.  I  am  seeing  the  same  things  over  again  and 
somehow  they  look  different.  One's  friends  make  us  see 
through  their  eyes  now  and  then.  And  Fred  is  an  artist  to 
the  core.  I  am  delighted  to  find  our  ideas  are  similar.  I  shall 
enjoy  traveling  so  much  more  now,  though  I  thought  it  could 
scarcely  be  improved. 

If  Ruth  is  still  grieving,  she  is  brave  and  bears  up  well. 
She  has  said  but  little  to  me.  I  have  not  told  her  that  you 
have  written  the  whole  of  the  pitiful  tale  to  me.  I  shall  keep 
her  spirits  up  and  help  her  all  I  can.  I  have  time  only  for  a 
short  note.  Fred  is  waiting  for  me.  The  dear  fellow  seems 
to  wish  me  to  go  everywhere  with  him.  Ruth  does  not  care 
to  go  with  us  so  constantly,  for  she  is  not  very  strong. 

Fred  said  something  to  me  yesterday  that  made  my  heart 
beat  strangely. 

394 


FROM   THE   WORLD  395 

UI  think  I  have  made  a  serious  mistake  in  my  life,  Edith. 
I  never  knew  you  at  home  as  I  do  now.  If  I  had  I  should 
have  followed  you  over  here  before  now.  But  it  is  not  too 
late  for  us  to  know  each  other  better.  May  I  follow  or  stay 
with  you  now,  until  we  can  return  home  together?" 

"I  can  ask  for  no  better  friend  or  companion,"  1  answered. 
Oh !  Aileen.  But  he  is  calling — I  must  say  good-bye. 

EDITH. 

RUTH  TO  AILEEN. 

My  friend,  I  will  only  send  you  a  word  of  greeting  with 
Edith's.  She  tells  me  she  is  sending  a  note.  I  am  very  glad 
to  be  here  with  her — she  is  so  vivacious  and  full  of  life  that 
she  cheers  and  helps  me  more  than  I  had  thought  possible; 
for  somehow  I  used  to  think  she  did  not  care  for  me.  Perhaps 
I  was  selfish,  and  thought  too  much  of  myself  and  of  my 
own  affairs.  Now  she  is  more  than  kind.  She  seems  so 
happy  in  Fred's  company,  and  they  are  congenial  and  suited 
to  each  other.  I  believe  she  has  been  in  love  with  him  all 
the  time.  Perhaps  that  is  why  she  gave  up  society.  You 
told  me  about  it  after  I  was  married,  if  you  remember.  Fred 
and  she  were  always  good  friends,  she  says.  But  he  became 
infatuated  with  a  girl  who  was  unworthy  of  the  love  of  so 
good  a  man  as  he  is,  and  she  saw  but  very  little  of  him  before 
she  started  to  travel.  He  has  found  out  the  heartlessness  of 
the  woman  he  once  loved,  and  is  disgusted.  1  think  Edith 
has  caught  his  heart  in  the  rebound.  And  I  will  be  glad,  for 
they  ought  to  be  very  happy  together. 

I  am  hoping  to  hear  something  from  you  that  will  ease 
my  heart,  for  I  cannot  forget — cannot  help  but  love  Bert, 
no  matter  what  he  has  done.  I  walk  along  the  Via  Crucis. 
I  have  been  on  Calvary  and  in  Gethsemane — Garden  of  Sor 
rows.  The  places  remind  me  of  the  One  who  suffered.  I 
feel  that  here  where  Christ  was  crucified  my  sorrow  seems 
small.  I  am  helped  and  feel  that  for  the  first  time  I  can 
reconcile  myself  to  my  life.  The  Holy  City,  the  Mount  of 
Olives  have  given  me  a  new  faith.  So  I  accept  my  fate  and 
turn  my  thoughts  more  toward  heaven,  while  trying  to  think 
less  of  earthly  yearnings.  Hopefully  I  wait. 


XL1I 

"And    He    said,    'She    has    sinned;    let   the   blameless 

Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone;' 
But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless; 

And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone." 

AILEEN'S  MESSAGE 

Strange  indeed  and  devious  are  our  meetings  and  partings 
in  the  world,  Edith.  And  the  most  pitiful  and  strange  to  me 
was  m  finding  Alice  Heaton  in  a  church  recently.  I  had  gone 
with  some  friends — one  an  organist — to  a  certain  church. 
After  practicing  a  while  she  struck  off  into  something  that 
caught  me,  and  held  me  by  its  spell.  The  very  soul  of  the 
music  responded  to  a  hidden  soul  within  me,  round,  full  lus 
cious  notes  that  told  of  heart  throbbings,  and  sorrows  in  minor 
tones,  ending  in  little  sobbing  sounds  that  went  to  the  depths 
of  my  heart.  The  soft  mellow  tones  like  the  moaning  of  the 
winds  among  the  trees  remained  when  the  vivid  sparks  ot 
the  staccato,  clear  and  ripe  as  they  were  in  fullness  and  purity, 
were  forgotten. 

The  music  died  away  in  the  dusky  light  of  the  vast  church. 
As  I  went  out,  I  saw  a  woman  waver  and  clutch  at  a  door; 
a  slim,  girlish  figure  that  attracted  me  before  I  saw  her  face. 
I  thought  she  was  ill.  I  saw  her  tremble,  and  went  hurriedly 
to  her  assistance.  Soon  as  she  spoke,  I  knew  it  was  the  girl 
1  had  seen  in  the  mountains.  And  knew  too,  that  I  was 
looking  into  the  eyes  of  Alice  Heaton,  but  so  changed,  worn 
and  pallid.  The  pitiful  look  in  her  eyes,  the  unutterable  woe 
that  had  appealed  to  me  before  I  knew  who  she  was,  was 
still  there,  but  intensified  by  the  deathlike  pallor  of  her  face. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  pity  for  her,  and  with  rage  for  her 
destroyer. 

This  frail  trembling  child  I  was  sure  could  never  have  done 
wrong,  unless  led  on  by  a  master's  hand  at  deceit  and  treach 
ery.  I  took  her  to  her  hotel,  and  her  eyes  told  me  more  than 

396 


FROM   THE   WORLD  397 

her  words,  her  longings  to  have  someone  with  her.  She  had 
no  friends,  she  said.  I  promised  to  come  again,  and  hurried 
away.  I  wanted  to  have  an  hour  by  myself. 

Ruth's  rival!  The  woman  who  had  taken  her  husband 
from  her !  The  mother  of  the  little  babe  in  my  house !  It 
was  all  very  strange.  In  some  way  my  life  seemed  mixed  up 
with  horror  and  tragedy.  Yet  I  had  called  it  a  comedy !  My 
part  acted  with  the  arch  fiend — 'the  man  who  had  wrought 
all  the  misery  of  those  two  heartbroken  women.  I  could  not 
have  believed  him  capable  of  such  dastardly  conduct  had  not 
the  knowledge  been  forced  upon  me. 

And  then  my  heart  sang  a  very  paean  of  delight  when  I 
thought  of  Frank,  of  his  love  and  trust,  and  my  escape  from 
the  network  and  the  meshes  of  doubt  and  suspicion  that 
might  never  have  been  brushed  away  but  for  him.  1  felt  I 
could  not  be  too  thankful  for  his  love  and  protection.  I 
would  not,  however,  be  false  to  Ruth,  if  I  should  see  this 
poor,  helpless,  grief-stricken  girl — and  I  would  go,  whatever 
the  cost! 

I  have  been  time  and  again.  Her  days  are  few.  She  has 
not  been  able  to  tell  me  very  much,  but  the  hunted  look  seems 
to  leave  her  eyes  when  I  sit  with  her. 

I  told  auntie  about  the  sick  girl  and  that  her  name  was 
Alice  Heaton.  She  seemed  lost  in  a  reverie  for  a  moment — 
"Alice  Heaton,"  she  mused.  "I  had  an  experience  once  in 
Santa  Barbara  with  a  little  girl  who  said  her  name  was  Alice 
Heaton.  I  remember  well,  for  I  wrote  the  name  down  at 
the  time.  I  paid  for  some  flowers  and  had  then  planted  on 
her  mother's  grave.  I  have  wondered  about  the  child  and 
thought  if  I  ever  went  there  again  I  would  try  to  find  out 
if  she  was  in  the  vicinity.  She  was  a  beautiful  child  with 
blue  eyes  and  hair  like  yellow  silk  floss." 

"The  picture  intensified  would  suit  her  today,"  I  answered. 
"But  how  did  you  happen  to  be  there  and  to  remember  so 
trivial  an  incident?" 

"It  was  shortly  after  your  uncle  died,  and  I  had  gone  there 
for  a  little  time.  One  day  I  wandered  out  to  the  cemetery. 
The  child's  mother  had  been  buried  a  day  or  so  previous.  The 
grave  was  bare,  and  the  child  had  stolen  some  flowers  to  put 


398  UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED 

on  her  mother's  grave.  I  paid  for  them.  I  would  not  allow 
her  to  be  disturbed,  she  was  so  small  and  her  grief  was  deep. 
She  said  God  had  not  been  fair  to  her  mother  because  there 
were  no  flowers  on  her  grave.  I  did  not  want  her  young  heart 
to  doubt — it  is  hard  enough  to  lose  faith  when  one  is  older." 

I  kissed  the  dear  old  lips — you  know  how  sweet  and  tender 
an  aunt  I  have. 

"You  always  were  the  kindest  and  best  of  women,"  I  said. 

"It  must  be  a  hard-hearted  person  who  would  not  be  kind 
to  a  child  in  distress.  And  that  reminds  me,  you  have  never 
told  me  why  you  took  the  little  babe  in  your  home.  You  are 
inclined  to  be  generous  and  kind  yourself,  in  fact,  sometimes 
I  fear  your  generous  impulses  may  bring  trouble  upon  you." 

"If  so,  they  will  come  in  a  good  cause.  I  will  probably 
tell  you  the  story  some  time.  It  is  pitiful,  and  enough  for 
me  to  know  now;  but  it  is  to  help  others  I  am  doing  this, 
and  not  for  myself." 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  she  replied. 

There  were  times  when  I  saw  Alice — she  could  scarcely 
speak;  and  at  others  her  mind  would  seem  to  wander.  Like 
a  flash  memory  would  dip  into  the  past — a  past  that  seemed  to 
scorch  her  heart  with  its  long  hidden  remembrances.  She  wa& 
on  a  tideless  sea,  a  wreck  drifting — drifting  through  a  gray 
mist  that  had  no  ray  of  light  to  guide  or  cheer  her  on. 

"I  once  thought  love  was  enough,"  she  murmured;  "that 
its  warmth  and  light  would  be  with  me  always,  but  now  I  see 
no  gleam  of  light  to  guide  me  from  the  solitary  spaces  of  the 
dark  sea  on  which  I  am  tossed.  He  taught  me  how  bright, 
how  beautiful  and  sweet  life  was  with  love  as  the  beacon 
star,  and  gave  me  a  glimpse  of  paradise,  and  then  sent  me 
adrift  on  the  dark  waters." 

Once  she  said:  "If  death  is  but  a  forgetting  of  all  things, 
is  it  not  better?  Do  you  believe  in  reincarnation?" 

"I  have  not  thought  very  much  about  it,"  I  replied.  "I 
have  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God.  He  who  knows  our  needs, 
knows  what  is  best  for  us  here  and  hereafter.  I  believe  that 
all  will  be  well  and  am  not  afraid;  I  try  to  do  what  is  right 
according  to  my  understanding  and  am  willing  to  abide  the 
consequences.  I  think  when  we  do  the  best  we  can  for  our- 


FROM   THE   WORLD  399 

selves  and  those  about  us,  the  law  is  fulfilled,  and  it  is  about 
all  poor  human  nature  can  do." 

"But  if  one  falls,  or  is  tempted  beyond  endurance?" 

"Then  the  great  Sufferer  will  know  and  understand  the 
needs  of  the  tempted,"  I  answered. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  wearily.  "But  do  you  know  that  it 
seems  as  if  I  am  not  myself  at  times,  as  though  I  were 
another  being.  I  am  searching  for  something  I  have  forgotten. 
A  memory  haunts  me,  elusive  as  a  dream — something  sweet 
and  fragrant  that,  strive  as  I  will,  I  cannot  grasp.  It  may 
be  that  there  was  another  existence  that  I  knew.  I  loved 
someone  there,  and  the  other  one  felt  the  same  sweet  thrills 
and  is  now  searching  for  me  in  the  wide,  wide  world.  I  seem 
to  feel  the  presence,  but  am  not  strong  or  magnetic  enough 
to  make  the  other  conscious  of  it.  This  mistake,  this 
woe  and  agony  would  not  have  been  mine,  had  1  only  found 
that  other  one  who  comes  to  me  often,  now  that  I  am  weak. 
1  feel  that  I  have  lived  an  unsatisfied  life  because  I  could  not 
reach  the  presence  that  is  yearning  for  something  I  'cannot 
define.  It  is  a  dim,  perplexed  feeling  that  will  not  be  van 
quished."  She  rested  her  eyes  upon  the  far-off  purple  edge 
where  sea  and  sky  met,  and  watched  the  great  yellow  sun 
slip  away  in  the  water,  as  if  dipping  into  another  and  stranger 
world  she  knew  not  of.  Little  bits  of  rosy  foam — clouds 
blown  up  from  the  sea,  it  seemed — flew  up  and  over  the  high 
blue  sky.  A  solemn  light  struck  her  wistful  face,  and  seemed 
to  rest  like  a  blessing  on  her  beautiful  hair. 

She  roused  as  if  from  a  stupor  and  said: 

"I  have  a  journal  wherein  I  have  written  much  of  my  life. 
I  want  you  to  take  it.  I  would  like  to  tell  you  all  and  ask 
you  to  judge  me  kindly.  I  believe  you  will  be  just.  I  have 
not  wanted  to  do  wrong,  but  if  you  have  ever  loved!"  she 
choked,  and  the  great  drops  welled  from  her  eyes. 

"I  love  and  am  loved  and  do  not  condemn  you,"  I 
answered. 

"You  are  happy — 1  knew  it !  In  your  great  heart,  you  can 
find  room  for  pity — for—  "  she  waited  a  moment — "not  for 
me,  I  shall  not  need  it  now,  but  there  is  a  little  baby — I  was 
not  allowed  to  take  or  see  it." 


400  UNCLEAN  AND   SPOTTED 

"I  know.  Do  not  distress  yourself.  I  have  had  it  in  my 
home  nearly  ever  since  you  left  Monterey." 

"You ;  you  have  it !    You  know !"  she  gasped  and  fell  back. 

After  a  time  I  told  her  all  I  thought  best. 

"And  you  knew  this  all  the  time?  "  she  whispered. 

"Ever  since  my  return  from  the  mountains." 

"And  you,  being  Ruth's  friend,  have  come  to  me  with  pity 
and  kindness?" 

"Yes,  and  I  will  say  to  you  that  I  know  the  man  far  better 
than  you.  I  know  that  you  are  not  to  blame;  and  I  shall  see 
that  Ruth  does  not  wrong  your  memory,  and  will  promise 
that  she  or  I  will  look  after  the  little  one  and  he  shall  not 
suffer  for  the  sins  of  his  father  if  we  can  help  it." 

"If  you  and  she  can  forgive,  then  surely  I  may  hope  for 
divine  compassion,  but  I  do  not  know;  it  is  all  dark  and 
uncertain."  Wearily  she  tossed  back  the  coverings. 

"I  am  so  tired — so  sleepy,"  she  murmured.  Dozing  a 
while— then  awakening  with  a  shiver — "I  am  cold.  Tuck  me 
in,  mama,  closely,  and  kiss  me  good  night." 

The  poor  earth-worn,  earth-soiled  and  misguided  woman 
forgot,  forgot  the  years  and  the  months  of  pain  and  sorrow 
that  had  come  to  her  after  the  ignis  fatuus  love,  that  promised 
her  the  world's  best  and  fullest,  but  which  was  ashes  almost 
before  the  fires  were  lit. 

Her  lost  childhood  came  back  with  full  swing  that  stretched 
back  for  the  last  time.  And  she  felt  her  mother's  hand  soothe 
her  brow  and  a  kiss,  forgiving  and  sweet,  as  the  sleep  of  death 
enfolded  her  and  she  swung  out,  over  the  earth's  limit  and 
beyond  our  uttermost  knowledge. 

And  God,  the  All  of  love,  of  tenderness,  knew  that  as  a 
child  she  came  across  the  line  and  death's  key  closed  all  that 
was  right  and  all  that  was  wrong. 

"Unclean  and  spotted  from  the  world." 

Yes,  but  the  world  and  all  of  its  evil  was  left  behind,  and 
the  soul  went  in  quest  of  its  Creator,  with  whom  all  things 
are  possible. 

THE  END. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50»n-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N°-  483384 

Beckman,    N,S. 

Unclean  and  spotted 
from  the  world. 


PS3503 

E387 

U6 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


